Decode
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Vaults and Secrets, #1. *Everything they want is in Felicity's head, but Oliver isn't about to let them take it.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving fifteen dollars and forty-five cents, a mutual need for freedom, and a whole lot of numbers. Thursday updates.
1. Talking Shop

**Title: Decode  
Chapter: 1 - Talking Shop  
Word Count: 3974**

 **Notes:** First of all, this is a semi-early birthday present for geniewithwifi. She asked for a multi-chapter fic for her birthday, and this felt like something I could deliver. I'm going to update on Wednesdays since her birthday is the 27th, and we'll just kind of see where this goes. I'm thinking somewhere in the 5-10 chapter range right now-which is highly doable.

Secondly, you've probably noticed that I haven't been answering reviews over here. I apologize for that, but I had an issue where it couldn't find the reviews when I went to respond. So, because of that, I was a little delayed. I sent in to support and everything seems to be working now. Sorry for any inconvenience.

It might be a very well-kept secret that one of my favorite movies is 2012's _Safe_ , starring Jason Statham. (I'm also a huge Jason Statham fan, but that's neither here nor there.) I made the mistake of watching it a few nights ago while writing Arrow fanfiction, and this little idea popped into my head. I kind of wanted to see it play out Arrow-style, and so here we are.

Sorry I haven't been writing much; I kind of had a disaster over break to clean up, and that's taking most of my time. That and I wanted to finish this-or mostly finish it-before I started posting. It takes quite a while to write something of this magnitude.

Also, I profusely apologize for bringing the flashback wig into this AU. Don't worry, we'll burn it in effigy soon. I love Oliver too much to let him suffer like that.

As always, curious to know what you think. :)

* * *

Felicity always thought that captivity would feel different, like living in a cage or being surrounded by guards every waking moment. But despite her current situation—surrounded by Chinese Triad members that make citizens pretend she doesn't exist—she doesn't typically feel trapped. For the most part, she moves around Starling City as she pleases, coming back to a Triad safe house in Chinatown at night.

The worst part, however, are moments like these, when the leader of Starling's branch of the Triad parades her little blonde recordkeeper around on the streets. In these moments, Felicity _does_ feel like a prisoner—even hates her life. It makes her feel like she's just a dog on Chien Na Wei's very short leash, but she had no other choice when they picked her up in Vegas, offering a bargain between her mother's life for her mathematical mind and eidetic memory. But despite how they use her, she usually feels free to do as she pleases for the most part, even though the woman she calls China White (which isn't appreciated) doesn't approve of Felicity's dark clothing, makeup, and hair—or the purple streaks through it, for that matter. As tight as her leash may sometimes be, they won't deny her this, especially now that cancer has finally taken her mother.

Of course, they haven't _told_ Felicity about that—or she might try to escape.

Frustrated, she buries her feelings under the cold, analytical side of business because she's done this for long enough she should be used to it now. For the last eighteen years, she's been keeping the Triad's accounts and money laundering pathways in her head, away from the easily tracked computer records they'd have to use without her.

Today, though, is accounting day, meaning she has one job and one alone. Only on accounting day does she curse her father internally for getting them into this mess, but she has to smother it down in favor of answering the unasked question. "Mira Street earned twenty-six thousand this week, the same last week," she informs China White in fluent Mandarin, earning her some looks from some of the citizens on the street. She quickly returns to invisible status, though, when they see Chien Na Wei and her group of Triad guards—all armed to the teeth—surrounding her.

"Forty-Second Street holdings are up seventy-two thousand five hundred and thirty-five dollars," Felicity continues. "Hojin is at fifteen thousand a week. Last week was the same. It lost money in May, but has been profiting since, with highs in July and August. Cheng Sao made thirty-two thousand last week, and thirty-two-point-five this week, with a seven percent increase every month." She takes a moment to run her tongue over her black-painted lips, again wondering what kind of person her father must have been to sell her into this life. Apparently his gambling debts were worth more to him than her. "Five percent of the total is from comes from Mr. Liang. Estimated profit for this month off of Forty-Second alone is between six to eight thousand a week."

Trying to hold her tone steady as they enter the illegal casino, she hopes the white-haired she-devil doesn't notice the way she skims over the next one. "The casino earned eight hundred thousand this week. It was eight hundred thousand last week."

She nearly thinks she's gotten away with it when an arm strikes out to grasp her jaw, and Felicity finds herself staring into Chien Na Wei's dark, cold eyes. "The casino is _exactly_ eight hundred thousand?" she asks sharply, in a tone that promises nothing good if she lies. "I want the exact number, my dear."

Though she hesitates, she knows there's only one choice. Until she can gather enough money to escape from the Triad, she has to stay in line so they don't suspect her upcoming treachery. "It's _almost_ eight hundred thousand," she answers slowly. "Seven hundred eighty-five thousand, three hundred and sixty-nine." She bites her lip, sealing its fate even as they enter: "It's losing money."

Knowing what's about to come, Felicity winces, turning away as the beating begins with little warning. All of the men participate, beating the hell out of the floor manager for his failures. She doesn't watch, unable to see what she knows is a violent, brutal attack. It continues for so long that she loses track of time, ending with a single, loud gunshot. "I don't understand," she breathes out in a whisper as she turns toward China White, though she still can't look at the man's body. "Why did you beat him if you were only going to kill him?"

"You don't understand," she answers coldly, "because you don't understand business." Then the woman waves her away in clear dismissal. "We'll resume this tomorrow, when your head is clear for numbers."

Breathing heavily, Felicity practically runs out of the casino, out onto the streets of Chinatown with a need to be in the mass of bodies for a moment, to get lost in the crowd. She never does, of course, not as a white girl in the middle of Chinatown where she's an outsider, but it still feels more anonymous than being flanked by guards. Still, they know her well enough—probably fear her in some ways—because, Chinese-American or not, to them she _does_ belong here. While she might be American in every sense of the word, according to her passport, she is a naturalized citizen named Mei Lin, adopted from overseas by one of Chien Na Wei's lieutenants.

Despite the horror of being their captive, though, they leave her free to roam the city at will, with only two rules that could have disastrous results: do not leave Chinatown and never speak English. It's for her safety, they say; after all, the Triad has been feuding with the Bratva presence in the city for years, and if they think she can't speak English, it will grant her some safety. No one other than Wei herself knows about her language skills.

Even though she _does_ speak English—and they taught her Russian, too, just to be safe.

After a few moments of walking aimlessly through the city, Felicity's head clears, focusing on the beauty and not the cruelty of her surroundings. Red lanterns hang over the awning of a grocery store. Colorful garlands and streamers add to its beauty. Even the gaudy decorations in front of a tourist's souvenir shop aid the bright splendor of the neighborhood, hiding the too-close buildings with crumbling façades and loose bricks.

Slowly she makes her way through the maze of streets without any aim or goal. She doesn't even realize she's walked about eight blocks until shouting snaps her out of her daze. Automatically, her head turns toward the sound, watching as a local shopkeeper, Mr. Liang, yells at a customer in English. Though she typically tries to avoid situations like these, today she's drawn to it. Mr. Liang is one of the most reserved people she's ever met—except where it comes to money.

Entering the shop, Felicity picks up the thread of the conversation. "… have no money, you have to leave now!" he shouts at the man. Out of curiosity, her eyes flick over to the customer, watching as he rummages through his pockets, presumably for a wallet.

It takes a moment for her to understand the scene, but, as an outsider who spends most of her time as an observer and not a participant, she takes in the small details that line it up for her. His clothes are old and worn, mostly faded, gray, and stained. The backpack on his shoulders is brown canvas and just as ancient, stained in places with a few broken buckles. Despite the nature of his clothes, he's dressed in several layers, as though prepared to weather the cold nights in Starling City. He wears a black ski cap on his head, long, brown hair sticking out from under it. Though everything else seems old, his shoes are new and in good condition—because he spends the money he has on the things he needs most.

Because it's Starling City, she's seen more than her fair share of homeless people. They usually look, tired, resigned, and weary, with shoulders sagging under the weight of their hardships and poor circumstances. But despite his appearance, the man before her stands with a straight back, square shoulders, and his head held high. Even his blue eyes seem defiant as he stares at the shopkeeper.

Despite his troubles, the world still hasn't broken him.

Though she knows she shouldn't get involved, Felicity can't help herself. That sort of determination is rare, and she finds herself drawn to it somehow. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Liang?" she asks in a quiet voice, her Mandarin still able to cut through his yelling in English.

The response is immediate; he doesn't even dare to look at her as he answers. "Mind your own business, you stupid cow!" he shouts at her in Mandarin. Her previous confusion is replaced by irritation. Never before has she wanted to use her status with the Triad to her advantage, but today, she might just. While she expects disrespect from Chien Na Wei, she certainly doesn't take it from people as spiteful as Mr. Liang.

"There's no need to yell at the lady," a low, hesitant voice cuts in, speaking Mandarin as fluently as the two of them. Felicity turns at the sound, surprised to find the would-be customer looking at her with those sharp eyes. Now that she's looking at him, she can't help but admit that, somewhere under the dirt ground into his skin, he's rather handsome. His square jaw is covered in dark stubble, the corner of his mouth turning up at her before turning back to the shopkeeper. "I seem to have misplaced my wallet, and I apologize for the inconvenience." He turns then to leave without his items, but Felicity doesn't think that's fair.

"Wait," she calls at him, and only then does Mr. Laing look at her, his irritation quickly fading into surprise and then fear. The man in the ski cap, however, only stares at her with a curious expression, as if expectant to see what she does next. Only then does she notice he stands tall, with pride. Though she'd be willing to replace the contents of his wallet—he clearly needs it more than her, after all—Felicity now realizes he probably wouldn't take it, refusing it as charity.

Clearly realizing his mistake, Liang starts in a rush, "Forgive me, Lin Mei. I didn't realize—"

She cuts him off immediately, not wanting to hear him suck up to her. "How much does his purchase amount to?" she asks instead.

"Four dollars, fifty-five cents," the shopkeeper answers promptly.

Nodding, Felicity pulls a twenty dollar-bill out of her pockets, handing it to Laing with a smile he doesn't deserve. "I'll pay for his purchases," she volunteers, passing the bill to the shopkeeper. "You can give the change to this man." He looks as though he wants to argue, so she adds, "Or you can choose not to, and I'll be glad to inform Chien Na Wei that your profits are down this month." He pales as she smiles. "That would be bad business for you."

She stays for long enough to ensure the fifteen dollars and forty-five cents are returned to the homeless man before turning on her heel and walking out. Already she understands that he'll only argue with her, refuse the money. Besides, she didn't do it for a thank-you anyway; she did it because some asshole out there was heartless enough to steal from someone who was _already_ down on his luck. It might be twenty dollars out of her small escape fund, but, well, he needed it more than her. This isn't about her—or even him.

This is about the casino owner who is lying dead in his own blood.

* * *

By the time Oliver thinks to argue with the Goth woman who paid for his snacks, she's already gone, leaving him more baffled than ever. He can count on one hand the number of times someone has dared to try and help him, even though he doesn't accept their money. On the rare occasions he has, they've expected gratitude or begging, both of which he doesn't do particularly well.

Instead, she leaves without waiting for anything, slipping out the door like a shadow. He tries to follow her, his curiosity getting the better of him, but she's already gone by the time he turns to look. She should be obvious in this setting—a girl all in black with purple streaks in her hair—but apparently she's just as good as blending in as he is. Better, even. It's startling because he's had years of training to get to this level, and he doubts that a civilian would have that kind of experience.

Stunned by the encounter, he shoves the money in his pocket, seeing no reason why he shouldn't hold onto the money. It's rare to come by this kind of cash and he doesn't squander what he does manage to find. Since getting a job would spell someone's doom, instead he's forced to gather what he can when he sees it. And Oliver doesn't come across fifteen dollars in a _month_ , much less a single afternoon.

He hadn't thought about the guy being a pickpocket when he bumped into the old man in Chinatown who yelled at him. But then Oliver had gone in to pay for the first food items he had been able afford in two months, and his wallet was nowhere to be seen. If the girl hadn't paid for his purchases, he'd probably be starving instead of breaking into the small bag of chips she bought him. They taste delicious after so long without food, but yet he still wishes he could have a soda to go with it. But water is cheaper—especially when he carries plastic water bottles and fills them out of public restroom sinks.

Oliver used to spend a lot of time feeling sorry for himself because of his situation, but slowly he's come to accept that it's no one's fault but his own. The only thing he was good for after everything went to hell with the SCPD was getting his head smashed in, but he should have known better than to get his money by taking dives in fights. Of course Alexi Leonov had bet on the one fight that he didn't lose, the one where Famous Internet Sensation went down in one damn hit. Even though he'd been Bratva in another life, it didn't save him; Anatoli had apologized, but said it was their way. No one tried to help him, to help _her_ stay alive.

And now, anyone he spends too much time with dies.

Truthfully, he hates Chinatown, the feel of it, the Triad lurking around every corner. But the Bratva won't travel here, into their enemies' home turf. It's probably the only reason the girl who gave him the money isn't dead right now. Leonov made him a promise—a promise to kill anyone around Oliver as punishment for the money he lost that night—and he knows the man will make good on it. The only relief he has is that Thea is living in Corto Maltese, away from Bratva influence and with a trusted guard named John Diggle watching her every move. Sometimes it's the only reason he sleeps at night.

He's so distracted by the random act of kindness and his own plight that he doesn't recognize the detective he bumps into until it's too late. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" Detective Cyrus Gold calls out, and Oliver ducks his head and corrects, trying to avoid confrontation. Sure, he could probably kill the man without missing a beat, but the need for violence has long since fizzled out of him.

Unfortunately for him, it's too late. Gold grabs his arm, tilting his head to look at him more fully. "Jesus Christ," the detective breathes, grabbing his arm more forcefully. "You're coming back to the car with me, pal." Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Oliver allows the man to lead him to the back of the police car, allowing himself to be thrown in the back seat. Climbing into the passenger seat next to his partner, Gold notes to Daily, "Look what the cat dragged in—Oliver Queen." He laughs like he's just won the lottery, probably taking pleasure from Oliver's pain. "Look at him."

" _Look_ at him?" Daily laughs with a vindictive smirk. "How about the smell?" Both men laugh, and only then does Daily turn toward him. "Thought you'd know better than to drag your ass back to Starling City after everything that happened, you dumb son of a bitch. I hope you missed us, partner. Welcome back to the force." Then he turns back to Gold as he starts the squad car. "Call the boys—I think it's time for a reunion."

Gold does as he asks while they drive through Chinatown, back onto the streets of Starling City and deep into the Glades, where there are fewer wandering eyes. When they finally stop, it's in an abandoned parking garage next to a dilapidated building. Several men are waiting for him when Gold yanks him out of the car, a few of them he barely recognizes or has forgotten in the last three years or so. But there's one that stands out among the rest—a man with a dark goatee wearing a nice suit.

Predictably, it's Slade who is first to throw a punch. The other men circle him as it connects, watching Oliver stumble back. The man behind him—Grundy, he thinks—grabs him in a chokehold that Oliver could slip out of in seconds if he wanted to. "How's your day been, Ollie?" he sneers, taunting him with the childhood nickname that his sister still uses. It typically doesn't sound as patronizing out of her mouth.

"Started out lousy," he answers truthfully, "but it's starting to look up." Aside from being blindsided by the SCPD—definitely better than the Bratva, of course—it's true. It's not every day a mysterious, beautiful Goth girl shows up and lets him have her fifteen dollars in change.

Lin Mei, he absently remembers the shopkeeper calling her. It's a common name; there are probably a dozen more women carrying the same one around in that square block alone. But the store owner had seemed afraid of her for some reason that he didn't understand. And then she'd mentioned Chien Na Wei. Surely she hadn't meant the _Triad_ leader, the one who rules Chinatown with an iron fist. Then there had been the mention of telling her that the shopkeeper's profits had dropped. What sort of weight would that have? There would be a record somewhere that would prove otherw—

Grundy tilts him sideways so that Jensen can gut punch him. Coughing and sucking in air, Oliver drops to the ground, watching them circle him, but not giving a damn about the pain. He _deserves_ this beating—it's why he ended up taking dives in Jersey before everything else happened. Maybe if he gets the shit beat out of him enough, things might actually start to turn around.

"Oliver Queen," an Australian accent cuts into the mess. Slade—finally. Oliver nearly thought he was going to have to send out an invitation to get him to speak. "If it isn't Starling City's hardest cop." Slade leans over him. "You always could take a shot. But you know what your _real_ talent is, Oliver? You're a _uniter_." The other men snicker at that, but he ignores it, focusing instead on Slade's words. "I never thought that I'd ever be on the same page as the Bratva about anything." He turns to one of his detectives. "Did you?"

"Not me," another man answers—Jensen, the former cop thinks is his name. "Dirty rat," he growls at his victim, punctuating it with a kick to the stomach. "I've been wanting to do this ever since you opened your goddamn mouth!" Then there's another kick, but Oliver barely feels it under all of the other pain.

"When we heard what Leonov did to you," Gold adds, "we had to laugh." He punches him in the face, hard enough that Oliver spits blood. Unfortunately, he manages to miss the target that Slade's shoe presents from this angle. He'll try again later. "I mean, we felt bad for Moira and Tommy, but, well, the Russians have their way of doing business." Gold tries to throw another punch, but Oliver blocks it. Though his ex-partner is begging for his arm to be broken, somehow the former cop resists the urge.

Daily pulls him off his feet by the collar of his hoodie, laughing in his face. "We couldn't believe you were back, asshole, but yet here you are," he taunts. Then he shakes Oliver by his collar a little. "It didn't make sense. Why wouldn't you disappear somewhere—like a cave on the goddamn moon? Why would you even _think_ about coming home?"

The former cop doesn't let them rattle him, trying his best to seem unruffled by their taunting and their beatings. "I missed home," he answers sarcastically. Daily laughs for a moment before shoving him to the ground and landing a knee in his stomach.

Slade crouches over him, so close that Oliver could slit his throat with the knife in his pocket that they forgot to even look for. "You were one of us, Oliver," Slade says to him in a deceptively calm voice. "We were a team. A _family_. Brothers, every one of us." He spits in his face, and Oliver wipes it away with a mocking smile. "Then you threw us under the bus, sold us out. We were _kings_ , you son of a bitch, but now we're just a bunch of goddamn slaves!" It's punctuated with another kick to the gut.

"We figured after all you did to your family, you'd want to die," Slade continues conversationally. "We have a pool going on how and when you're going to end it all—to give up and stop fighting. Grundy thinks bus, Gold thinks train, but me? I've got my money on suicide by cop." Then, as though it's nothing, he pulls his gun out of its holster and offers it to Oliver by the barrel. Little does he know that if he so desired, Oliver could drop them all before they knew what to do. It's just that he doesn't see any point now. "Come on, Queen—take it," Captain Wilson taunts with a sneer. "Take a shot. Your parents are waiting for you, kid."

There are many things Oliver allows to get the better of him, but Slade Wilson has never had that kind of satisfaction. The former cop sees no reason to give it to him now. Rising to his feet with a wince, he stares into the captain's face with a mocking smile. "You're wrong about my talent. I might be good at uniting people, but my _real_ talent?" He smirks. "It's costing other people money. You ought to know that, Slade. You're going to lose that bet—unless you want to shoot me in the back." He turns, looking over his shoulder before walking away. "Wouldn't be your first time."

Then he leaves the police captain shouting at his back, allowing Oliver to smile his first genuine smile in _years_.


	2. On the Rails

**Chapter: 2 - On the Rails  
Word Count: 5342**

 **Notes:** Insert witty comment here. I'm a little brain-fried right now. Hope you enjoy. Oh, and happy first Arrow day of the new year! :D

* * *

It's a month after the casino incident that things change. Felicity can hear their indistinct whispers at night, the hush that falls over the compound during the day. Something big is happening, but she has no idea what. All she can hear is the occasional use of the word _safe_ being thrown around. For a moment, she's terrified that they're going to move her to somewhere she's locked down day and night, but then they start discussing it in Mandarin. Not 'safe' as in protected, but a vault for protecting valuables.

It doesn't concern her; she's been stealing from China White herself, enough so that she'll be able to escape soon. Last Thursday she made off with about a thousand dollars from the safe in the back room, and even more from the money her men leave lying around the place. It's going to be accounting day soon, and she reminds herself to adjust the numbers in her head so they don't realize it's missing.

Felicity smiles as she stares at the items stuffed in the messenger bag she's been carrying since she found out about her mother's death. Last week she managed to slip out of Chinatown and into the Glades, where she bought a bottle of blonde hair dye from a store without security cameras, along with lighter cosmetics that will make her more difficult to identify. Her glasses are in there, too, and she'll probably start wearing them instead of her contacts. As soon as she makes her break, she'll duck into a convenience store bathroom and change every aspect of her appearance and slip out of the city.

Also hidden in one of the back compartments are her new IDs. She made the alterations to the DMV herself, and a well-known forger in the Glades faked the rest of her papers. Harper is a genius; they match _exactly_ what she wanted, already taking the liberty of changing her looks like she intends to look once she gets away. According to her new papers, Megan Shaw is a small-town girl from rural Iowa, moving to the city after earning a Master's from MIT in Computer Science. Of course Felicity doesn't _have_ a computer science degree from MIT, but she has enough knowledge in the field to pass for it. Maybe in another life, it could have been real.

The only other issue she has to face is trying to disappear is transportation. Fortunately for her, though, she managed to find a manual on automotive electrical repair and study it, giving her an idea of how to hotwire a car. Though it isn't appealing to steal a car, she doesn't think she has much of a choice. At least until she can get somewhere to buy one, which will be far from Starling City.

Wrapping a piece of wire from one of her computer around her wrist absently, she tries to think if she's missed anything. She twists the uncovered strands of copper together to make a bracelet of sorts while trying to think what else she'll need. Clothes and food, definitely, but the cash will help. When that runs out, she can pull from the off-shore bank accounts that the Triad uses via wire transfers. And a computer will be ideal; Felicity can do a lot with a laptop—even an off-the-shelf, storebought model.

A knock sounds on her door abruptly, and she scurries to zip up and pull the flap over her Edgar Allan Poe-inspired messenger bag. China White doesn't seem to notice it, though; she looks distracted with other things. "Mei," she snaps in a sharp voice. Felicity rolls her eyes at the woman's insistence to call her by a name that will never be hers. "With me. You have work to do." She turns without waiting for a response, and the rebellious streak in her makes her want to stay put in spite.

Knowing there will be repercussions if she doesn't follow along, Felicity only adjusts the bag over her shoulder and follows her into the center of the operation. A table takes up most of the space, covered with various papers and documents—most of which relate to illegal activity. Wei holds up a piece of paper over her shoulder, filled with letters and numbers in squares. "You have twelve minutes to memorize this," she states in Mandarin, her tone cold.

For anyone else, the combination of over two hundred numbers would be impossible, but for Felicity, it's nothing. She slips the piece of paper out of the she-devil's hands, staring at it for maybe six seconds before handing it back. "Done," she answers. "What else do you need me to do?"

Apparently Wei isn't buying it today. "This is an _extremely_ important number, my dear," she states in that sickly sweet voice she uses when she's angry. "If you don't have it memorized, I'll fly to Las Vegas myself to cut your mother's tongue out of her head."

Somehow Felicity resists the urge to tell her to go to hell, instead remembering that her mother is already gone and that she has nothing to worry about either way. Not to mention the fact that she's being honest about it; the eidetic memory ensures that once she sees it, she doesn't forget it. "I have it," Felicity assures her in a dry tone. "I would recite it to you, but it's a long, boring number and I'd probably fall asleep in the middle of it."

To her surprise, China White only smiles at her impertinence. Whatever this is, it certainly has her in a very good mood. Usually her attitude earns a torture threat toward her already dead mother. "Every once in a while, I forget you're American," she answers, her mouth turning down in a sneer, "but then you speak again." The white-haired mob boss snaps her fingers and holds out her hand then, and an enforcer puts a lighter into it without missing a beat. Felicity can't help but wonder where a person gets that kind of power—she thought that was a movie-only thing.

"Very well, Mei," Wei continues, all business now. She flicks the lighter, setting fire to the page. "Today is going to be different than your usual work for us. Today, I need you to remember this number for us. We're going to take you to a man who has a second number, and you're going to memorize it, too." She waves her forward, walking toward the exit. Felicity scurries to keep up, making sure a second time that her bag is closed securely and that it's fastened well over her shoulder. "From there, you'll be taken to a third location. Instructions will be given to you then." China White turns as she opens the door of the car for her favorite recordkeeper. "We're going to be meeting another interest, which means you'll be protected by our best enforcers. They'll keep you safe."

To Felicity, all that means is that she won't be able to escape today. Rather than answer, she sinks deeply into the leather seats of the Audi, tucking her bag under the arm. She's stuck in the car between two enforcers, with Chien Na Wei in the front passenger seat, snapping in Mandarin to the driver. Felicity rolls her eyes.

They ride in silence for quite some time, until finally Wei turns to look at Felicity with a surprising lack animosity. "Mei," she starts, almost gently, "I know we've had our differences, but you've learned your place in the business very quickly." Then the strangest thing happens: she smiles. "You could have a great future in the business if you do this job well. My boss is very pleased with your performance."

Though the flattery is meant to encourage her to do a good job, Felicity smiles as expected to Wei's face before rolling her eyes at the woman's back. No amount of idle, silly, flattering words will convince her that running isn't the best choice. She has nothing— _no one_ —in this world, and she thinks she can get to somewhere like Russia, a territory they can't touch, before they can find her again. From there, she'll brush up on her somewhat rusty Russian and live out a life in computer repair. The idea of spending her life there isn't exactly appealing, but it will keep her safe, away from her captors.

A car horn snaps her out of her reverie, and she looks up just in time to watch an older model SUV crash into the rear door on her left. Felicity can't help but scream at the impact, ducking her head and covering her ears as gunshots start to fire. Her fingers shake on her head; in eighteen years of being their slave, nothing of this magnitude has _ever_ happened.

The enforcer to her left opens the door to fire, but another shot makes him slump in his seat, something wet and sticky coating her hair and hand. They're red now, red with blood and bits of things she doesn't want to think about. Then she dares look up long enough to realize the bullet went through his head and she cringes. Being covered in blood is one thing, but being covered in brain matter is another thing entirely. She's going to be lucky if she isn't covered in her own vomit, too, by the time this is over.

Her driver starts firing to, of course, and one of the men drops, but another appears just as quickly and gets off a lucky set of shots through his head. She jumps at the sound, but then realizes that the enforcer to her right has bailed out, probably to fight their attackers. Seizing the opportunity, she tries to slide out toward freedom, only to realize that the dead enforcer to her left has landed in her lap. Struggling to pull loose, she's almost home free when she hears the gun click in front of her.

Watching Chien Na Wei point a gun at her head is one of the most surreal sights Felicity has ever seen. A woman who spent so much time to groom her into something—gave _eighteen years_ to this—is going to be the one to kill her. Maybe the recordkeeper should be more upset about this, but at least in death, she'll be free. "I'm sorry," China White—the bitch—has the gall to say to her, but yet she still manages to sound like she _means_ it. "I don't want to do this Mei, but I can't let the Bratva have you." Before she can fire, a shot clips her shoulder, and she goes down.

A chill goes down Felicity's spine. Bratva, her worst nightmare come true.

It's that thought that gives her the adrenaline rush it takes to get the hell out of the car. She throws a hand on her back and runs, moving as fast as she can in her black Converse. Russian shouting follows her, but she doesn't pay much attention the sound, only thinking about escape, about that elusive freedom she's been trying to find for so long. She's going to run, going to escape, because she did _not_ do so much work only to die here like a damn dog.

But despite her best efforts, a large, rough hand grabs her arm, pulling her up and over his shoulder. She fights him as best she can, of course, but it isn't enough. The big Russian doesn't seem to give a damn about her struggle, simply carrying her back and throwing her in the car. Then a rag is pressed over her mouth and nose, and she falls unconscious.

When she awakens, it's with a splitting headache and foggy vision, blood no longer caked to the side of her head. The room is dark and smells like cigars, which doesn't make her headache any better. The first thing she notices is that her bag is still over her shoulder, meaning she can still run if she finds an opportunity. Then her vision becomes clearer, and all of her hope falls away as she realizes where she is. The man behind the executive desk in front of her makes a sense of dread sink like a stone into her stomach, realizing just how bad the situation is.

Alexi Leonov, head of the Starling chapter of the Bratva.

He looks just as terrifying as she's been told, making her swallow hard. He's speaking to one of his men in Russian that would take her too much work to decipher, but when he realizes she's awake, he offers her a smile that's more menacing than reassuring. But maybe he means it that way. "Hello, Mei Lin," he says to her in a heavily accented voice. Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and he laughs at her confusion. "Yes, I know who you are. We have a friend in the Triad. She told us where you were, what you could do, and about the number you carry in your head right now." He leans over the desk. "You will give it to me, Miss Lin—one way or another."

There's a saying her mother would use at times like this, and Felicity says it in Mandarin, though it doesn't exactly translate. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire," she mutters under her breath, and all the men in the room stare at her. "I can't speak English," she tries, just in case her luck is horrible one of them _does_ speak Mandarin. "Only Mandarin."

"English," Leonov demands instead, showing that her words were lost on him.

Playing along with her role, she only points to her mouth and shakes her head in response, causing him to explode into an impressive torrent of Russian swear words. Very creative, too, Felicity can't help but note with mild appreciation. Then he points to one of his guards—the one who grabbed her—and yells angrily, "We should never have retired that son of a bitch! He might have cost me a million dollars, but at least _he_ could speak Chinese! I should kill _you_ for dealing with him! Get someone who can speak Chinese in here— _now!_ "

Before anyone can move, a knock sounds on her door, and Felicity bites back the urge to scream as the man declares, "SCPD! Open the door! This is the police!" Just when she thinks the day can't get any worse, that she can't fall any deeper, some asshole thinks it will be fun to hand her a shovel. "We have a report of a disturbance, and we're coming in!"

There's a flurry of Russian being spoken by several men at once during the speech, but finally her abductor steps toward the door in question, flanked by the other enforcers. "Bullshit, blue!" he screams back in English. "You come in this door, you go out feet first. I swear on my mother!"

It's only then that Felicity realizes that their attention is on the door and away from her. Seizing the opportunity presented to her, she slips through a side door of the office. It leads her into a parlor with very expensive furniture, and she nearly cries when she sees the bathroom with an open window leading off of it.

Running, she shuts the door behind her and locks herself into the small bathroom, staring out the even smaller window. No hippopotamic land mass of a Russian will be able to follow her through this one—of that she's certain. She's about to crawl through it when she realizes an entirely different problem: it's two stories off the ground. While Felicity isn't proud of the word that leaves her mouth, she finds it rather accurate. Though she wants to turn around and try somewhere else, she doesn't know the house and they'll realize she's gone soon enough. "What the hell," she grumbles to herself. "Freedom is worth a few broken bones."

Just like that, she jumps.

The landing isn't pretty, crashing onto her side with a bone-deep pain that sears through her left side. It doesn't matter, though; Felicity is on her feet in an instant, scrambling up into the fastest run she can manage. It lands her in an alley, and she tries her best to meld into the crowd as she enters into the Glades for only the second time in her life.

It's only the outskirts, before the crime rate gets horrible and violence lurks around every corner, but she can feel herself go into high alert, reading the street signs for any clue of what she remembers from the map. Gearing Street stares down at her from a sign, and she sighs in relief. Two blocks north leads her into the heart of Starling City, where her chances of survival are much improved. She slows her run, mingling with the crowd on the streets. With her dark makeup and hair, she might be an outsider elsewhere, but here, she fits right in.

She manages to make it into Starling when she spots the men tailing her. They're tall and thin, waving to one another and pointing to her. In a panic, she starts to run with no real direction, but a burst of inspiration strikes her when she catches sight of the old subway line—the one they just managed to get up and running again after decades of being closed. She ducks into it, remembering the subway schedule she memorized while checking her watch. Twelve-seventeen. That's good—the next train leaves in three minutes, heading to a station not far from Starling Heights, one of the ritzier neighborhoods of the city.

For once, she might actually have a valid escape plan.

* * *

Oliver checks the old watch on his wrist once more for the time. Twelve-eighteen. The next subway train is in two minutes—two minutes away from an escape. In anticipation, he edges his feet closer to the end of the platform, staring down at the track below with the weight of the decision he faces, toes of his shoes hitting the yellow line. The one thing that makes him both contemplate and dismiss this choice is the same thought: Thea.

Doing this to her will be cruel, a torment that she doesn't deserve. It won't stop the Bratva from hunting her—it might even make them more determined to find her. Maybe if he could explain it to her, things would be different, but he can't risk making a phone call from anywhere other than a payphone in Chinatown. If they catch him doing it, have their pet police officers run the calls, they'll be able to find her then. And Oliver hasn't worked this hard for this long to keep her alive to know she's dead because of his mistakes. That would be the worst punishment he could imagine.

But, on the other hand, it's a universal truth that Oliver is worth far more money dead than alive at this point in his life. He knows there's a life insurance plan with his name on it in his sister's safe, that Diggle knows about it if anything happens to him. And the best part is that no strings are attached to it, that his sister stands to inherit several million dollars upon his death—despite the cause. Maybe she's better off without him at this point; he can't be the kind of brother he needs to be from three thousand miles away, and he can't be close to her with the Bratva tailing his every move, waiting to destroy his life even further.

With a sigh, he turns and walks away from the edge. The reason he doesn't do it is a petty one: he isn't done fighting yet. He's survived multiple kinds of hell over the last ten years or so, but he's not going to give anyone the satisfaction of beating him, of defeating him. Not knowing those bastard criminals parading around as cops have an office pool on it. He doesn't want _anyone_ to make money off of him—especially not them. Instead, he goes back to the bench he came from, watching boarders come and go as they please.

It might be an odd pastime, but he likes watching people. Because he can't interact with them anymore—not without them being killed by Russians—his contact with people is from the outside looking in. The blonde checking her watch has perfectly manicured nails and is in a hurry. The man in a suit is reading a copy of the _Times_. Another man in a leather jacket and jeans is reading a large-print thriller novel that Oliver knows only from the controversy that followed it when it came out. And a woman with black hair walks too stiffly toward the platform, checking the watch on the inside of her wrist often, her black lips turning down as she turns the other way, flashing him purple-streaked hair.

It's _her_.

It has to be her, the woman who helped him in the market. Curious, he rises to his feet, wondering what could make her look so frenzied. As she searches her surroundings, her eyes are wide with panic, a jittery hand on her bag like it's her lifeline. Frowning, he walks closer as he watches her, wondering how the hell she could present such a contradiction and a mystery at the same time.

Harried Russian speech snatches his attention away from her. "…the girl," the big man with a poorly concealed gun at his hip is saying. "The man who does gets to live. She's in her twenties, painted like a corpse. Black hair, dark eyes, dark clothes." Oliver's eyes immediately flick to the girl, just in time to watch her notice them with wide, fearful eyes and duck behind a pillar.

The truth hits him like a battering ram: they're after her. No doubt the men are Bratva; he recognizes one of the other men as one who was there when they killed Tommy in front of his eyes. Oliver's eyes narrow as he watches her slide around the pillar to avoid being seen by them, clutching her bag as though it's a lifeline as the subway train arrives.

She's practically bouncing in nervousness for it to stop so she can hop on, rocking back and forth from the balls of her feet to her heels. Though he knows he shouldn't, the former detective follows in idle curiosity as she enters one of the cars. She enters peacefully, but so do the Russians at the end. It's probably ridiculous, but the urge to protect the girl is too strong to ignore.

But she saved him first, and it's time to return the favor.

By the time she recognizes that the men are already there, the doors are closing. Oliver barely manages to slip in before they completely shut, in the car in front of hers. He pushes into the end car to find her alone, sitting at the tail end of a bench, eyes closed in acceptance of her fate.

Slowly she realizes that she's no longer alone, eyes flicking to him for a moment before watching the Russians enter the car in front of hers. Then her eyes flick back to him, studying him for a long moment before finally widening in recognition. Oliver doesn't expect her to remember him—he's used to being insignificant—but apparently she does.

His eyes go back to the Russians before settling on her again. "They're after you, aren't they?" he asks her quietly, his voice rusty with disuse. He rarely speaks to anyone now, making his voice sound odd even to his own ears. She only stares at him with wide eyes, and he vaguely remembers that she only spoke Mandarin in the shop that day. Quickly, he repeats the inquiry in Mandarin, keeping an eye on the four men that approach ever closer, scanning the car.

Oliver watches the woman study him, probably scared, suspicious, and weary. He can see the exact moment she decides to trust him, her resolve hardening and the fear leaking out of her expression. It's only then that she nods once in a sharp, short motion.

That's all it takes to set him into motion. He walks over to her, dropping his bag by her feet. "Hold onto this," he tells her, this time not bothering to speak to her in English and using Mandarin instead. "I'll be back for it," he adds over his shoulder, before squaring them and preparing himself for the kind of fight he hasn't been in since Jersey.

Except this time, he's not pretending to get his ass kicked.

He enters the same car as the Bratva without their notice, slipping into a seat at about the middle of the train. They dismiss him immediately, not interested in anyone but the girl. Oliver waits until they pass him before he rises to his feet, stalking up behind them like a predator would its prey. One of them is probably going to shoot him before they get to him, but at least maybe the girl will be able to get free. If she's smart, she'll be able to disappear with just a few minutes' head start. And he can give her that.

When he lashes out to attack, none of them see it coming. He doesn't waste time with non-lethal blows, not when these assholes destroyed his family. He goes for the thin lanky one in the back, snapping his neck with no warning. One of the passengers screams, but it's only because of that they realize he's even there.

Even though Oliver has the jump on them, they recover from their surprise relatively quickly, and with only mild swearing in their mother tongue. He takes down two more before they can move, lashing out with a kick that turns his opponent's leg at an odd angle when it hits. The man screams in pain, but by then Oliver has already moved on to the third, knocking him to the ground with a quick punch that sends him reeling.

Only two are left on their feet, and the former cop goes for the smaller of them, shoving him into the larger. The punch he lands to the man's face is followed quickly but one to the stomach, and he collapses in pain, leaving Oliver to face the leader of the group alone. Before the Russian can reach for it, he grabs the gun from the man's hip. There isn't enough time to fire it, so instead he punches his opponent with the barrel before shoving his head against the glass of the door to the girl's compartment. Then he topples him to the floor as the train sways.

And it's only then that Oliver raises the gun, level with the bastard's head in clear warning.

The light of recognition dawns in the Bratva enforcer's eyes, probably from all those years ago, standing over the bodies of the people Oliver loved. "You? You're the one…" the Russian realizes in English, letting it trail off. Finally he adds in Russian, "The traitor." Clearly the story has become a cautionary tale to new agents because he seems to know that the former cop has the same tattoo over his left pectoral as the man at the end of his gun.

There are many things Oliver could say to him, in this moment before the Bratva man is to die. He could tell him that he couldn't betray a cause that was never his, that they betrayed him first by treating him like just another piece of muscle. But, in the end, that would give his opponent too much satisfaction. So instead of making a wordy, witty answer, he simply says, "Yeah," before pulling the trigger.

Maybe it should bother him that he's killed, that he's taken a life, but it doesn't. It used to, back in the days when killing was a part of his life, but now he just feels a grim sense of satisfaction. One more monster off the street. He turns without giving the body much thought, clicking the safety on the handgun before stashing it in his waistband at the small of his back. He'd like to have a holster for it, but despite his hardships, Oliver still isn't at the point in his life where he'd consider looting the body of a dead Bratva enforcer.

With a sense of resolution, he makes his way back to the raven-haired woman. She's still crouching at the back of the last car, but this time her eyes aren't wide in fear of her would-be tormentors, but of _him_. For some reason he doesn't quite understand, that bothers him more than the atrocities he just committed. It's that thought alone that scares him; thoughts like that are dangerously close to caring about someone.

"Are you all right?" he finally asks her after a long moment, remembering to use Mandarin. She jumps at the sound of his voice, still staring beyond to the other car. Finally, gently, he decides to use her name—the one he remembers even a month later. "Mei," Oliver states with more force, and now she really looks at him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." In an attempt to prove his point, he walks up to her before offering her a hand up from her place on the bench.

Just when he thinks she's going to refuse it, she takes his offered hand, flashing the length of wire wrapped around it like a bracelet as she does so. Mei holds onto his fingers like a lifeline, refusing to let go even after rising to her feet. "Thank you," she almost whispers in the language Oliver is starting to think is her native tongue. She studies him for a long moment in a way that unnerves him, as if she isn't just seeing him, but staring into the person he is. Finally she asks, "What is your name?"

It should probably concern him that her hand is still in his and that neither one of them seem interested in letting go, but that thought opens doors he doesn't want to open again. Part of him wants to answer and tell her the one simple word, but at the same time, he's grown comfortable in his life of anonymity. The curiosity in her eyes finally encourages him to answer softly, "Oliver."

"Oliver," Mei repeats, as though testing the name on her tongue. Then, louder, she continues, "Thank you for saving me." He's about to protest, to tell her that _she_ was the one who saved _him_ by giving a purpose to his life for the first time in ages, when she rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. Only then does she release his hand as the doors open, and it takes him a moment to realize she's already starting to walk away from him. "You should run, Oliver," she turns to say to him, her eyes suddenly dark with determination and maybe a little sadness. "People around me only ever seem to die."

Then she leaves him, allowing Oliver staring behind her for a long moment before he finally makes a choice. He steps on to the platform thinking about all the things Slade and his men said, about the pool they have on his death. They all seem to think suicide, but he hasn't stopped fighting yet. The only problem is that he hasn't found anything to fight _for_ in a very long time. And while he isn't afraid of death or the pain of dying, he is afraid of it being a meaningless, trivial affair. It's that thought that makes him look for the woman in the crowd, to grab his bag and try to catch up to her. If he's going to die, Oliver decides, it might as well be for a reason.

Keeping her safe is just as good as any.


	3. Take a Ride

**Chapter: 3 - Take a Ride  
Word Count: 4628**

 **Notes:** Happy birthday to geniewithwifi! I didn't have as much time to write as I needed, but I hope this turned out okay, anyway. Love to know what you think, but thanks for just reading, as always! :D

* * *

Even though every instinct in her is screaming for her to do the opposite, the recordkeeper does _precisely_ what she least wants to, walking away from the man who bought her a few more hours of life. She runs, weaving through her fellow subway train passengers back into the city. As she does, Felicity pulls up the hood of her jacket—a hoodie displaying skeletal outlines of seahorses on it—and tucks her hair into it. Maybe it won't keep her from being recognized, but at least it will make it harder for them to spot her until she's able to dye her hair.

As she passes through the turnstile, a movement catches her eye, and she notices a cop standing near the entrance. Holding her breath, Felicity keeps her head down, even while her blood freezes as she passes close enough to hear the officer's radio crackle to life. "…twenty-five years old, black hair, five-foot-five. Only speaks Mandarin. If found, she needs to be brought to Captain Wilson at the Glades precinct."

It takes all Felicity has to keep moving at that. At first she has no idea why the _police_ , of all people, are after her, but then slowly she remembers hearing Chien Na Wei mention payments to the Glades and Chinatown precincts. They're hunting her and using the police to do it. That presents a new complication, one she isn't sure how to solve now. Sure, she knew she'd be hunted by the Triad and maybe even the Bratva, but law enforcement brings in a whole new element she doesn't know how to address.

Suddenly she isn't sure if she can do this on her own. Of course she knows the basics about staying under the radar: cash only, never stay in one place for more than a few nights, change cars regularly. While she's good, that doesn't mean she knows how to evade the police and all of their manpower. Maybe with a laptop, it would be possible, but for now, Felicity is unplugged and unable to wreak havoc in their mainframes.

Though every cell in her body threatens to panic, she manages to hold it together long enough to get past the officer and into broad daylight in Starling Heights. She breathes a sigh of relief, staring at the shops and nice houses in front of her before finding a street sign. Harding Avenue. According to the map she memorized, if she heads east on Harding Avenue, she can find a small convenience store and a used car lot, both of which could prove useful.

She's so caught up in following the map in her head that she jumps when a hand grabs her arm. She tries to pull away, but the man says to here, "Easy there. I'm not going to hurt you." Only then does Felicity look at him, swallowing hard when she catches the badge on his belt. His hair is dark and he looks like trouble, despite being an SCPD detective. Then he pulls back her hood, studying her face. His eyes roam over her figure in a way that makes her want to take a shower before he asks, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Trying desperately to fight the urge to spit on him—something that would get her locked up and make her into a sitting duck—she looks down at the ground, saying nothing. After all, she's not supposed to speak English, and if they figure out who she is anyway, revealing that information will get her killed—either by the police, Bratva, or the Triad. Suddenly the idea of an ally, of begging Oliver to stick with her, doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

The detective turns to his partner, a large, muscular man no less menacing than the man currently gripping her wrist. "Gold, I think this is her—this is the girl." He tightens his grip on her arm. "Didn't it say she was kind of a Goth chick?" Felicity somehow resists the temptation to kick him in a place he probably wouldn't appreciate. Then he looks over her again, and she shivers. "Never said she was hot, though."

"Keep it in your pants, would you, Daily?" Gold responds, rolling his eyes. "I think Chien Na Wei provided a picture—let me look." He motions with his hand. "Bring the girl with you. If it is her, I want that reward from the captain as soon as possible."

With nothing else to do, Felicity follows the both of them over to their police cruiser, parked next to a row of motorcycles. She bites her lip, wondering if she should try to grab that can of pepper spray in her bag. It would be easy enough to explain, she decides as Gold reaches into the cruiser for something and Daily tries to shove her into the back of the squad car. She can't speak English, so she wasn't sure what was going on. She was frightened and one of them kept staring at her in a way that scared her.

Before she has a chance to test her theory, a whistle comes from behind them. Felicity looks up in surprise, only to watch as a blur of faded and dark clothing punches Gold in the back. Oliver then turns to to the other officer, and her lips can only turn up into a smirk as her kind-of-a-friend stops Daily with a kick to the groin. With him down, Oliver turns his attention back to Gold, punching him in the face. He falls into the front passenger seat, but he's promptly thrown out.

By then Daily is back on his feet, but Felicity takes advantage of the situation. First she hits him with the bag, knocking him to his knees, and then she slams the car door into his middle. Oliver stares at her in surprise as he holds Gold by the throat, and she shrugs self-consciously before saying, "That's what he deserved for leering at me." Her kind-of-a-friend stares at her for a moment longer, but finally a slow, tentative curve comes to one corner of his mouth.

Then his attention turns back to the cops. "Gotta love Starling City," he says to them in English, and Felicity thinks his voice is even more intriguing in its native tongue. There's a hint of sarcasm to his voice, and it just sounds _right_. "You don't see someone for years, and then you run into them twice in the same day." Then he opens her door, offering Felicity his hand again. While she was hesitant to take it before, this time she's not worried. If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done it back at the subway. "Are you all right?" he asks her in Mandarin.

"Fine," she assures him, nodding her head a few too many times. Then she releases him, pulling down the hood of her jacket and trying to walk away. "I told you that people around me only ever seem to die," she reminds him as he keeps pace with her, not seeming to care.

His hand is suddenly on her arm. "I think we both have bigger problems," he admits in a low voice. His tone is wary, and it makes her turn in time to see two new sets of cars pulling up to the block. One set of men is yelling in Mandarin, the other in Russian.

Only then does Oliver seem to realize what kind of trouble he's dragged himself into. "What the hell did you _do?_ " he asks in English, but Felicity doesn't have time to answer. Instead, she starts to dive toward the steering column of the cop car, turning the key to the ignition. Now she has a car, and she is _definitely_ getting out of here.

Strong arms lock around her waist, pulling her back out. Fortunately, Oliver's hands don't linger in places they shouldn't, and instead he unwraps the wire from her wrist. "A motorbike can go places that cars can't follow," he tells her, in Mandarin this time, turning to one of the bikes around the police car. He turns to one that has labels of the word Ducati, which has no meaning to her.

She watches as he attempts to follow the wires down under the bike, and she rolls her eyes at his pathetic attempt to hotwire it. Instead, her hands drop onto his, fixing the wire in place with just a few heartbeats of moving it into place. Of course it feels like hours, but the men are only a few feet away from their cars when Felicity hears it start.

Oliver is on the bike almost instantly, reaching for her with one hand. She doesn't need the invitation, already crawling onto the bike behind him. "Hold onto me tight," he warns her, and Felicity wraps her arms around his waist, trying very hard not to notice the lean muscle at his middle. (She mostly fails.)

While the Bratva and Triad men are scrambling back to their cars, Oliver starts forward with the bike. It lurches ahead, making her let out a squeak and wrap her arms tighter around him. Slowly she realizes he might have been onto something with the bike thing, especially when he turns down a narrow alley where they can't follow.

Though Felicity isn't quite sure where they're going, but fortunately, Oliver seems to have an idea, judging by the way he keeps weaving through the streets. She's just about to breathe a sigh of relief because they've escaped when she notices another car following them—and recognizes one of the men in it as a Triad enforcer. Her kind-of-a-friend must notice because he suddenly swerves into another narrow street. A one-way street, going the wrong way.

She can't help it: she screams as a car flies past her, the wind moving with it and passing _way_ too close for comfort. "Not trying to tell you how to do your thing or anything," Felicity states in a frantic tone, "but I'm pretty sure that on this street, _cars go the other way!_ " By the end, she's screaming, trying to keep the shrill air of panic out of her voice.

Doing the worst thing he possibly could, Oliver turns, looking at her with wide eyes. His brow slowly furrows in a confusion she doesn't understand, but he still doesn't turn back around She wants to scream at him to watch the road, but then she realizes _why_ he's staring at her. For once, Felicity has no words to give, all of them drying up in her throat.

Because, for the first time in _years_ , she's spoken in English.

Too late, she covers her mouth with one hand, just as he turns his attention back to the road again. "Yes, I speak English," she whispers over his shoulder as she settles her arms around his middle gain, almost afraid to say it aloud—especially in her native tongue. For so many years, they've told her that anything other than Mandarin spells death, and now she's starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was another constructed lie by the Triad. "If you don't kill us on this thing and we somehow survive the Triad death squad, I promise to tell you the whole story. It's a good one—a little dry in the middle, maybe." It pulls a chuckle out of him, and she finds that she likes the sound.

They drive around for a while longer, using back alleys to travel deeper into the city. Finally he stops in a back alley, pulling her off the bike for a moment before digging through his pack. After a moment, he offers her a green hoodie. "They're looking for a Goth with black hair and purple streaks," he explains in English as he offers it to her. "We need hide your look until you have a chance to change it."

Felicity nods, stripping off her favorite hoodie in favor of his. It's nondescript and baggy on her, but when she pulls a hair band out of her bag to pull up her hair, the hood hangs down nicely over her face and hair to conceal them. As she works on her own situation, she notices that Oliver is trying to tuck his hair up into his own cap to hide it a little. "What do you need to dye your hair?"

"I already have dye," Felicity answers slowly, noting the box in her bag. "I have some money, so I'll need to buy some other supplies to do it myself." She studies him a moment, and slowly it creeps into her mind that already they've both assumed that they're running together. It's terrifying because she barely knows him, but Oliver has proven himself trustworthy to her. "We'll need something to cut yours, too—they'll catch on to the cap soon enough."

"Just tell me where you need to go," he answers, displaying a level of trust Felicity isn't sure she deserves. Then Oliver starts to get back on the bike, but something stops him. "We need to hide somewhere that they won't think to look for us. I was thinking Starling Heights—no one would suspect a runaway and a homeless man to go there." He frowns. "But there's a dress code there. I'll need a suit to get the room, and you'll need different clothes to blend in."

Felicity smiles, pleased to have thought ahead. "I stole a credit card off of one of the enforcers," she assures him. "I think that could take care of your dress code problem." She crosses her arms, thinking of the maps. "There's a beauty supply store on Ninth and Dearing. I can get the rest of what I need there, if you'll take me."

When Felicity walks out of a the supply store, it's with bags and a hundred dollars less than she started with. The money is going fast, and, while it unnerves her, she's pleased to do it.

The next stop however, gives her more pause. The area of the Glades he's driven to is seedy if she's being nice. The motel is grimy, with dilapidated brick and a flickering neon sign. Too many letters are broken for her to determine the name, but Oliver seems confident. Even still, he grabs her hand when they dismount the bike. "Stay with me and don't say anything," he warns her, adjusting her hood over her head so that it covers her face. Felicity opens her mouth to argue, but he doesn't let her. "They're not after me, Mei—they're after you." Something makes his features darken. "You don't want to be memorable in this place. And they will remember someone as beautiful as you." The way he says it makes it sound like the opposite of a compliment.

Immediately she understands that this isn't a place to be as a woman, that this is some other way Oliver is trying to protect her—and for good reason. Slowly, she nods, following him into the place without a word. Halfway across the narrow street, he pulls the hood of his own gray hoodie over his face, to conceal it.

The lobby is just as dubious as the rest of the place, with peeling paint and a very stained rug. Oliver tells her to wait in the middle of it before going up to ask the equally dubious man behind the counter, "How much is it to rent a room for the hour?"

Suddenly Felicity is very glad he can't see her face or the expression that runs across it at the question. She understands the implications, and, though he's been helpful so far, it still makes her doubt his intentions now. She has no doubt that Oliver has a shadier side, but the problem is determining whether or not it's a threat to her.

Right now, she isn't so certain.

Though the question troubles Felicity, the clerk seems to find no issue with it. "Fifty bucks," he says without missing a beat. Then he looks over at the girl under the hood with appraisal. "Two hours costs you eighty. Three is one-twenty-five."

Oliver hands over some cash. "You have good rates," he answers conversationally, "but I only have one hour." His easy calm unnerves her, as if he's done this a thousand times before. While it's probably a good idea for the purpose of their conversation, it would be less off-putting if she thought he'd never paid for an hour of good, clean fun in a cheap, dirty hotel.

The rest of the exchange is handled very efficiently, and soon enough, Oliver has hold of her hand again, leading her up the stairs with a key in his other hand. They're nearly free when the manager calls out, "Hey, just for the record? You don't have to run around here with hoods over your faces. I don't care if he's underage. I ain't the cops—not my business."

Felicity freezes for a moment until she realizes he's marked her as a young boy, helping to hide her tracks more efficiently. While she's relieved not to be noticed, it also makes her stomach churn a little to think that people bring children here with some regularity.

"I'm not a pervert," Oliver answers without missing a beat. "I made sure he was over eighteen. But my wife would be _pissed_ if she knew I was here." The clerk lets them go without another word, and it makes Felicity realize yet another thing about the man leading her up the stairs—she knows nothing about him. He could have a wife out there somewhere, which would make his intentions a little less than honorable.

Doubts plague her all the way up the stairs and into the room, but they only intensify when he locks the door and then leads her into the tiny bathroom with him before locking that door, too. Only then does Felicity start to panic, all alone in a very small room with a very imposing man who she's watched kill before.

Cold fear claws down her spine, and when he turns to face her, she aims a wild kick at his groin. He dodges it—by a very close margin—but instead of retaliating, he just holds his hands up before placing his back against the door and forcing as much space between them as possible. "I'm not going to hurt you, Mei," he assures her in a quiet voice. "I thought it would be safer if anyone caught us because of the window." He points, and, sure enough, there's a window over her shoulder. "If they find us, we already have two barriers between us and them—and a quick getaway."

A blush immediately rises to her face, and she can't look at him because of the horrible conclusion she's drawn. She's so used to everyone wanting something from her and his altruistic actions make her doubt him more. "I'm sorry," Felicity blurts immediately, staring down at the floor. "I—"

Hands suddenly press against either side of her head, and she looks up in surprise of his actions. "Hey," he tells her gently, standing just a few breaths away. While he's close enough to startle her, now she doesn't fear his actions. "Never apologize for trying to protect yourself. We barely know each other, Mei."

"Felicity," she answers quickly, without even preparing herself for the admission. They both stare at each other in surprise before she elaborates, "My name isn't Mei Lin. It's Felicity. Felicity Smoak." He doesn't say anything, and suddenly his eyes on her is just too much. "We don't have enough time to dye my hair—especially not with what it will take to strip it down to turn it blonde—but maybe you could get a shower. I bought an electric razor at the beauty supply store, so I'll, um"—she makes a buzzing sound—"your hair."

To her surprise, it brings a smile to the stoic man's lips. "Good idea," he agrees slowly. "But first…" He trails off, reaching to pull back her hood. Then he holds out a hand as he turns Felicity toward the mirror. "I need a brush." With a confused frown, Felicity empties her bag onto the table, the items pouring out all over the small counter.

When she hands him the brush, Felicity marvels at the way he brushes the tangles out of her hair with an ease she doesn't expect. "It will be easier to blend if they can't see the purple in your hair. I'm going to braid it so they're hidden. Then maybe you should remove your makeup and…" His eyes flick to the counter. "Those glasses will help, too."

Still marveling at the way he seems to be working her hair into a French braid, she can't help but ask, "Where did you learn how to do this, Oliver?" He's doing it with expert ease, and Felicity can't help but think he's done this before. Despite the familiarity, she isn't sure where in the world he picked up the skill.

A hint of a smile graces his face. "I have a little sister," he answers quietly, never missing a beat. "Her name is Thea, and she's ten years younger than me." His smile turns reflective. "She used to follow me everywhere. I picked up a lot of tricks like this from her over the years." He reaches over her for an elastic band.

It makes Felicity think about his life for a moment, about the comment he made to the clerk earlier about his wife. "Do you have a wife, too?" He doesn't answer right away and Felicity bites her lip. "Or was that just a thing you said up front. I just realized I don't know anything about you."

A smile graces his lips. "A lie is better if it strays as little from the truth as possible," he answers, which isn't really an answer at all. "I'm not married, but if I was, I'm pretty sure my wife would be slightly upset to know I'm locked in a small, motel bathroom with a beautiful woman—especially without knowing the context." Again the compliment isn't said as a compliment. Last time it was almost a threat, but now it's a statement of fact. It isn't spoken with intent or charm, but instead as truth. It takes Felicity a long moment to realize that she actually _likes_ that about him.

Smiling, Oliver finishes with her ponytail, immediately starting to strip off his hoodie and shirt almost immediately. For a moment, all she can do is stare; the planes of lean muscle across his chest are marked with both scars and tattoos, but they only serve to make him a greater mystery. Then his hands go to his jeans, and she makes a horrible squeaking sound before turning her back to him. "What are you doing?" she asks, her voice coming out an octave higher than normal.

"Shower," he answers with a grunt as the spray comes on. "I need something to clean the grime off—and I'm sure I could lose the smell." He makes a breathy sound in his throat that sounds like laughter. "I probably should have warned you." It's an apology, just in different words. "We don't have a lot of time here, so I was trying to be as efficient as possible." There's a rattle as the shower hooks drag across the rod, and then with a laugh in his voice, he adds, "You can turn around now."

Deciding to do just that, Felicity turns back to the grimy mirror, taking a few deep breaths. Slowly she reaches for the makeup removal wipes in her bag, trying to ignore the fact that an incredibly handsome, careful man is showering with in arm's length of where she stands. Turning to the sink, she mutters under her breath, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." A laugh answers it, and when Felicity scrubs at her cheeks, she finds her blush doesn't rub off.

Felicity makes quick work of her makeup, then goes about replacing it with the makeup in her bag. Instead of trying to save her contacts, she throws them away in favor of her glasses. They sit oddly on her face after so long without wearing them, but it isn't unpleasant. The girl in the mirror isn't bad, either; she definitely doesn't look the way Felicity remembers herself in the mirror. Her makeup is lighter—but she made sure not to go too bright—and her hair looks almost _severe_ compared to the way it did before. But, as she turns to look at it, her eyebrows shoot up. Apparently Oliver spent a _lot_ of time braiding his sister's hair because he did an excellent job with hers.

"Could you hand me a towel?" comes from the shower, and Felicity jumps slightly. Though she didn't think it was possible, she _did_ forget the man behind the curtain. She quickly passes him a ragged towel with a frown, keeping her eyes focused on the corner. "You look different enough to keep the hood down when we get out of here," he notes. There's a rustling noise, then the sound of a zipper before he says, "I'm going to sit down here." She turns, watching him cover the lid on the disgusting toilet before turning around and facing away from her.

Only now does Felicity start to hesitate. "You do realize I've never gone to beauty school, right?" She bites her lip. "I've never done this before, but…" She trails off, studying the overlong hair. "I think a little longer on the top, shorter on the sides. Longer than a buzz cut, but just barely." It's hard for her to put it into words, but she thinks the message is clear enough.

It surprises her when his only response is to shrug. "Whatever you think," he says flatly, clearly uninterested in the entire conversation. Still, the trust there is impressive; she isn't sure she'd trust him to cut her hair any way he'd like. Not to mention the fact she has a somewhat sharp object at the back of his neck.

Though they don't have a lot of time, Felicity takes it slow and careful, using the different blades to trim it shorter before _really_ taking a chance at it. By the time she's finished, she's more than a little impressed with her work. "Damn, I think I missed a calling," she notes before running her fingers through his much shorter hair. After a moment, she realizes the intimacy of the moment, and she pulls herself away from him, before pulling off her skull t-shirt in favor of the tank top underneath. "What do you think?"

It takes a moment before he answers her, scratching at the new cut in the mirror for a long moment. "That works," he agrees, an altogether underwhelming response. Still, she thinks it's a good look on him nonetheless. Something about it makes his features look stronger, sharper, which makes him look a little more dangerous—with very wild eyes. The Oliver she knew before looked lost, but the one she knows now looks like the predator she knows him to be.

He reaches for the razor that fell out of her bag, but Felicity catches his wrist before he can run it across his cheek. "No!" she calls out, a little too loud. His eyes narrow, and she blushes as she mutters the words, "You don't need to shave. You look good the way you are."

There's something unreadable in his expression when he answers, "I'll let you be the judge, Felicity."


	4. Stay the Night

**Chapter: 4 - Stay the Night  
Word Count: 7650**

 **Notes:** First of all, quick shout-out to geniewithwifi: take this as a reminder that I love you dearly because I had to work my butt off to get this to end right.

Secondly, **we're moving back to Thursday updates.** Thursday is just a better post day for me anyway, and I think it's what y'all are used to getting from me. So I'll see you next Thursday with the next chapter.

I am horribly late and I do apologize. I had a rhetorical analysis due, and I'm currently split between two computers, which is making it difficult to do what I need to do. (I got a new computer as a late Christmas/early birthday gift, and I've been trying to install Windows 10 and my programs on a really crappy Internet connection.) So I'm actually a little more disorganized than usual, which is enough to scare me, too.

I don't know what happened with this chapter. Oliver suddenly got really wordy and I let him do it. This chapter is over 2000 words bigger than the next largest in this fic. I hope the content makes up for the fact that it's late. ;)

Love to hear your thoughts, as always, but if you don't have time, I completely understand. Thanks for sticking with me through crazy update schedules and even crazier updates. :D

* * *

By the time they reach Starling Heights again, the lunch crowd is starting to thin and the day is starting to progress into the afternoon. Despite the early hour, Mei—no, Felicity, she said her name was—is nearly asleep on the back of the bike, fatigued by what he assumes to be a very traumatic day. She might not have said much about it, but he knows the Triad, the Bratva, and the police are all swarming her, and the woman doesn't seem like a hardened criminal to him.

Her grip loosens ever so slightly around his waist, and Oliver slows the motorcycle while placing one of his hands over hers in an attempt to steady her. He can feel her breath against the back of his neck, coming in small puffs while her head weighs heavily against his shoulder. It pulls his lips up into a slight smile as he remembers how tense she'd been at his driving before. If she's asleep now, it's probably because she could no longer keep her eyes open.

Taking her unconscious state into consideration, he drives the last two blocks to the shop at a lower speed. When he stops, though, Felicity jolts into alertness as though someone had shocked her. "You're all right," he assures her quietly, patting her hands around his middle before placing it back on the handlebar of the bike. "I just need to stop in here for a moment—people are going to ask questions if I try to rent a room in what I'm wearing now." He motions to the shop across the street, the windows lined with expensive suits. "Do you want to go with me?"

"No," she answers, her voice thick with sleep. It causes the corner of Oliver's mouth to turn up. "We should probably ditch the bike," Felicity adds after dismounting, turning to face him. She tugs on the end of her braid almost absently for a moment. "We can pick up another vehicle tomorrow before we leave, and someone could have reported it missing by now." Then she points to boutique, right next to a shop advertising electronics several doors down from his destination. "I could use some new clothes, and we need to pick up a laptop and some prepaid smartphones—that should help me track movements. Meet me there?"

After a long moment, Oliver nods, though he wants nothing but to stay with her. Realistically, he understands that they shouldn't be seen together now, but he also knows that he can't protect her from three buildings down. Sighing, he takes his backpack from the inside compartment, slinging it over his shoulder. "If I haven't found you in an hour, you need to run." She swallows hard, paling as she realizes the implications of what he's saying, but eventually Felicity nods. Then she reaches out to squeeze his hand before walking away, blending very well with her surroundings.

Because it's the middle of the day, the menswear shop isn't busy and they're able to accommodate him rather quickly. At first they seem a little hesitant to fit him—his clothes still have the same homeless vibe, despite the shower that improved his own station—but when he holds up the platinum credit card that Felicity gave him at the motel, the salesmen fall all over themselves to assist him. The card goes through without any issue, and because he can forge a signature, the one he gives them matches the back of the card without attracting suspicion.

Finally he makes his way to the electronics store, pleased to see Felicity staring at one of the higher-end laptops as though it's everything she ever wanted, with two shopping bags and a basket containing two phones on her arm. As if sensing his presence, the raven-haired woman meets his eyes, before they study the suit he purchased. "Find something you like?" Oliver can't help but tease her, blinking twice at the price tag on the computer. His father once said that women had expensive tastes when it came to jewelry and clothes, but apparently Felicity prefers electronics to velvet boxes from Tiffany's.

Her mouth turns up ever so slightly, and Oliver greets her first genuine smile since he's known her with one of her own. "It will do," she says after a long moment. "It has the processing power and memory I need"—she lowers her voice for the next two words—" _to hack_ , and I like the hybrid hard drive, but it _is_ a little expensive and I'll have to install Linux as the operating system." She turns to him. "Do you think you could charge another four thousand dollars to the credit card I gave you?"

"They didn't ask any questions when I used it for the suit," Oliver answers, deciding that it would be a nice choice. After all, the hotel he has in mind for the night is one of the few that still take cash. Things will be better for both of them if they don't have to use the credit card any more than necessary; after all, plastic is traceable. "We'll ditch the card after this," he decides. "It probably won't be flagged yet, but if we use it any longer, it could get us into trouble."

A four-thousand dollar laptop is in his hand when they leave the electronics shop together, Felicity carrying her purchases with her. Oliver takes her free hand almost absently, and she looks up at him, offering him another of those rare smiles. "I'm sure you probably want to know how I got into this mess," she starts slowly. "I promise to tell you when we have a hotel room."

Truthfully, he answers, "You don't have to tell me anything, Felicity." Though it should probably terrify him, Oliver doesn't give a damn what she did or who she is. It's because he knows what she _isn't_ ; after spending a lifetime around various forms of monsters—and becoming one himself—he knows what the worst of humanity looks like. The look she throws him is understandably unconvinced, and he huffs a breath of laughter at it. "I don't care how you ended up here. I'm just glad you are."

The truth in that should probably scare him, too; it's been a long time since he's found solace in someone's presence, but something about Felicity is different. Most of his life has been spent with people begging him to open up—his mother, his sister, Tommy, Sara, …Laurel. All of them wanted something from him, but she _didn't_ —and he's convinced she still doesn't want his protection. If he's offering, she'll take it, perhaps, but if he was to walk away right now, he knows she wouldn't follow him. Perhaps it's part of whatever she's faced in the past, but he has the feeling that Felicity Smoak is not the type of woman to cling to people, even the ones she cares about.

No, she's the kind that, if he wanted to leave, she'd hold the door open for him.

"I think I should at least tell you what's happening before you decide to get into bed with me," she blurts. To his surprise, her face immediately colors, her cheeks flushing pink in a way he would _not_ have expected from the Goth woman he met only hours ago. "Not _literally_ in bed. Because that won't be happening. I mean, I'm grateful for your help, but that is one way I _won't_ be expressing my gratitude." Felicity waves a hand, and Oliver knows he should probably stop her, but he can't help but be impressed with her ability to talk when she gets going. "Not that I wouldn't sleep with you—I mean, _look at you_ —but it wouldn't be for gratitude reasons. It would be for I-want-to reasons." Horror flits across her face even as Oliver's smile widens and then she cringes before dropping her hand to poke him in the shoulder. Then her fingers lace through his again. "And why didn't you _stop_ me?"

"Couldn't," Oliver answers, staring down at her, trying to contain his amusement. "Too stunned." The corners of his mouth twitch anyway. "I've never heard you say so much at once before." The laugh that leaves him is breathy and light before he adds, "I don't think I've heard _anyone_ say that much at once." The dusting of color on her cheeks deepens, but the last thing he wants is for her to be embarrassed—especially when there's something so inherently… charming about her. "But I like it."

If anything, it only makes her color more than before. Because of that, he lets the subject drop to keep her from being embarrassed, moving his hand from hers to her shoulder, pointing at the tall, expensive hotel in front of them. "I'm going to get a room for us," he tells her instead. Offering her the laptop box, he points to a spot clearly visible through the glass façade. "Stay here. Then you can meet me by the elevator bank. I don't want them to recognize you, okay?" The last time he made the mistake of giving orders, he saw the fire of defiance in her eyes, but this time she only nods. Apparently she understands that he's only ordering her around for her own safety.

After she discreetly slips him a wad of cash, he goes to the front desk. Getting the reservation is easy enough, especially in the suit and with the extra money he slips the desk manager when he says his name is John Smith. He doesn't even have to sign any forms, and soon enough she's handing him a key card for a room near the stairwell on the eleventh floor. It isn't the _best_ floor under the circumstances, but it's the best he could do.

With a short wave, Felicity is on his heels, following him into the completely uncrowded elevator. "We're on the eleventh floor," he tells her in greeting, slipping the laptop box out of her hand again. "I paid for two nights, but we can slip out earlier than that if we need to." Then a thought occurs to him that he didn't realize when he was paying for the room. "I'm not sure how many beds there are, but I was going to sleep in front of the door as a safety measure." He hesitates for a long moment before deciding to share with her a small yet significant piece of his life: "I don't really sleep that much anyway."

"I know it's crazy because I've only known you for a few hours," Felicity allows, her words stilted as though she's giving great weight to what she's saying, "but I trust you, Oliver." Then she laughs at something he doesn't quite understand. "I don't even know your last name, but I trust you." Her head tilts to the side, and already he knows the question before she can even ask it: "Why is that?"

Unable to resist the urge of teasing her, Oliver smirks before quipping, "I guess I just have one of those faces." It pulls a smile to her lips, and he can't help offering a more genuine one of his own in return. He hesitates for a brief moment before stating in a soft tone, "And it's Queen." She only stares at him, eyebrows knitting together, so he clarifies, "My name is Oliver Queen."

She nods once, and he's pleased that she doesn't seem to recognize it. Though he didn't take her as the type to watch the bloodsport of Jersey's mixed martial arts ring, he's found that people walk up to him and mention that dreaded night at the same moments he least expects it. He doesn't want to be reminded of that night; Leonov had so much riding on that fight that it cost Oliver his entire world.

That reminder brings the thoughts of who he is—and, more importantly, what he's _done_ —rushing to the forefront of his mind, and a sense of dread sinks into his stomach as he realizes just how wrong she is for trusting him. "You shouldn't," Oliver says abruptly, coming out in a growl in his sense of urgency. The runaway's eyes flick to him immediately, widening at the rough sound to his voice. Softer he clarifies, "You shouldn't trust me."

Instead of running, Felicity does exactly the opposite, latching onto his hand with a show of defiance. He had started to think those moments came and went, but now Oliver is starting to realize that it's a somewhat understated part of her personality—though the result is anything _but_ understated. "And you shouldn't have saved me," she retorts, her tone hard with the force of her disagreement. "But you did anyway. Maybe you're right. Maybe I _shouldn't_ trust you"—the mere mention of the thought makes his stomach drop—"but the fact is that I _do_ trust you." A bitter laugh leaves her. "I shouldn't be on the run from the Triad. You shouldn't be homeless. We can talk about _shouldn't_ all day, Oliver, but the fact is that I _do_ trust you." Her hand squeezes his, and he returns the gesture, gripping hers like a lifeline. "And you trust me, too." She says it so simply, as though it's the easiest thing in the world, as though they both accepted this a long time ago. It's disconcerting to realize she knows him so well after only a few hours.

But what truly surprises him is to find that she's _right_.

Oliver never truly made the active decision _to_ trust Felicity. Instead, he had fallen into it slowly, probably starting the moment she paid for his purchases in Chinatown when the met for the first time last month. Now, though, it's almost instinct to trust her, an action as easy for him as breathing. In a way, it scares him; it's been a very long time since he trusted _anyone_ , much less someone he barely met.

The last person he trusted was Slade, and look how far that took him.

The elevator doors open before he can reflect any longer. The walk to the room is short and uneventful, and Oliver locks the door after Felicity enters, dropping his backpack to the ground. He watches as she goes straight for the large bathroom, paying no attention to the single, king-sized bed as she goes, barely stopping to drop the bag of cell phones before pouring all the contents of her messenger bag over the expanse of the spacious counter in the bathroom. Unable to resist, Oliver watches in curiosity as she mixes several products together, but then stares down at her clothes. "Do you have anything I could wear and possibly completely ruin?" she asks him without warning. "The dye is going to be a mess."

Without a word, he crosses to his backpack, picking a somewhat tattered, once white T-shirt from his bag and offering it to her. Felicity places it on the counter before stripping out of the hoodie he gave her, throwing on the shirt over her black tank top just before pulling her hair out of its braid and combing her fingers through it to make it lie flat. Then she pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves from the box on the counter and grabs a silicone brush, using it to systematically work the mixture onto the ends of her hair.

"So, Oliver Queen," she starts without warning, not looking up at him but only at her work, "how does a guy like you end up in a situation like this?" The corner of her mouth twitches up in the play at an old pick-up line, and Oliver can't fight his own smile that returns it. "No offense, but you don't seem like the kind of guy who randomly saves women from scary Bratva enforcers."

Just like that, the smile on his face falls. "No, I'm not," he agrees with her, his voice soft with the weight of reflection. "I'm the kind of man who used to _hunt_ the beautiful woman on the run." Maybe there's a hint of flirtation in his tone, but he can't resist the chance, even now. Felicity's eyes jolt to him, and he answers by slipping off his jacket, unfastening his tie, and unbuttoning his collar. Her face turns a vibrant red, but the color soon disappears as he pulls the shirt over to show her the tattoo on his left pectoral. "I used to be Bratva," he explains unnecessarily.

Though he expects her to flinch, Felicity doesn't even blink before resuming work with her hair. "You must have been the one they were talking about, then," she decides after a moment. "The Russians were talking about wishing they still had someone who spoke Mandarin. I'm guessing they meant you." She studies him then, brows furrowing together in her confusion. "Why did you leave?" She waves her brush in the air. "If you don't mind me asking," she qualifies it.

There's no reason for her hesitance; Oliver finds himself _wanting_ to share this with her. "I didn't leave," he tells her, absently rolling the cuffs up on his nice dress shirt before leaning against the door frame again, watching her work with a soft smile on his face. He hesitates at the admission he wants to make—not because he doesn't want to tell her, but because he doesn't want to show her what a monster he was. "I was on the streets in New Jersey when the Bratva found me," he tells her honestly. "They took me in because… well, organized crime can always use people with skills like mine." It doesn't say too much, but he knows she'll read the message underneath. After all, Felicity has already watched him kill several men today; she knows precisely what he's capable of doing.

Leaning more deeply against the door frame, Oliver continues, "I made captain quickly. When I wasn't doing jobs for them, they kept me busy fighting in the mixed martial arts circuit. They made a lot of money by betting on me to win, but then Leonov realized how much more he could make if I started _losing_." Felicity flinches at the word, as though it was a terrible cost, but it was the one part of the Bratva that never made Oliver cringe. He deserves worse than getting his ass handed to him a few times for what he's done over the years. "I was supposed to throw a fight three years ago, but the kid they had me up against wasn't ready for it. I was supposed to make it look like a fair fight, so I threw one punch." He laughs, the sound bitter in his throat at how unfair life can sometimes be. " _One_. He went down with a single blow, which meant I won instead of losing. I cost the promoter over a million dollars that night. Someone said Leonov lost more than ten times that."

Felicity's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "No offense, Oliver," she tells him in a cautious tone, "but I'm kind of surprised you're still alive after that." She brushes at an end toward the back of her hair, not quite reaching it. Knowing that help might be appreciated, he pulls on a pair of gloves from the box and slips the brush from her hand. "Ends to roots," she instructs, hands falling at her sides, brushing his oversized shirt. Without warning, she switches back to her previous topic. "I'm glad you are, but I thought the Bratva would have just killed someone for something like that."

"If it had been the Triad," he answers, slathering on the thick mixture at the ends of her hair, "they probably would have beaten me within an inch of my life and then shot me." Her hair pulls upward as she nods at that several times, clearly acknowledging the truth in that statement. "But it was the Bratva. Instead of trying to kill me, they just wanted to make me suffer." He sighs. "They killed my mother and my best friend. My sister was studying abroad in an area where the Bratva doesn't operate, or they would have killed her, too. As punishment for that, they promised they'd kill anyone who managed to get too close. They said my housekeeper would be next if I stayed, so I left and stayed on the streets instead." He hands the brush back to her, throwing the gloves in the trash after peeling them off. "They always keep watch on me—except in Chinatown, where they can't go—so I have to stay away from everyone."

"That seems a little excessive," she notes in that light tone of hers.

"It's the Bratva," Oliver answers, his tone just as hard as hers is light.

Hesitantly, he clears his throat as she finishes working on her hair. As she throws her gloves in the trash, he asks, "What about you?" Remembering her line from earlier, he can't help adding, "What is a girl like you end up running from the Triad, the Bratva, and a horde of dirty cops?" Her eyebrows narrow at that information, and he shrugs. There are some things he isn't ready to confess quite yet. "Starling City is my home and I operate in the shadows, Felicity. There isn't a faction in this city I don't know about."

It's a surprise when she decides not to press further, and he breathes a sigh of relief as she slips past him for the laptop box he left in the corner. She drags it over to the desk in one corner of the large hotel room, sitting at the chair with her paste-covered hair still hanging in place. "What do you know," she asks in a hesitant tone, "about the Triad's Ledger?"

The question throws him for a moment, but he trusts that this is somehow relevant to her story. "It's Chien Na Wei's pride and joy," he answers immediately. "It's the account information on how they launder their money and smuggle it back to China through various trade routes. No one knows exactly where—or what—it is because most of the stories about it are nothing but rumor." Most of Oliver's life, however, is just a whispered rumor that is precisely true, so he knows the ability of a rumor to mask the truth by allowing others to discount it as idle gossip. "The rumor is that it can't be hacked and it can't be stolen."

The computer expert in front of him nods once, a hint of a grim smile at her lips. "It can't be hacked," she agrees slowly, "but it can be abducted. It can't be stolen, but it _can_ choose to run away." Understanding dawns on Oliver quickly, his jaw loosening in surprise at the picture she's painted for him. Though she doesn't need to, Felicity adds, " _I'm_ China White's precious Ledger—all of the Triad's accounts are in my head." She slides the laptop out of the box, her fingers sliding carefully over the packaging. "They stole me away from my mom in Vegas when I was seven because they heard about my ability for perfect recall."

Only then does Felicity turn back to him, her expression sad. "My mother died two months ago, and I was saving up to run when _this_ happened." She waves her hands around the room with a wild, meaningless gesture. "They had me memorize a number—a ridiculously _long_ number—and told me they were going to take me to a location where I'd be given another number to memorize." She rolls her eyes, as though it would be nothing to do just that. "After that, I was supposed to tell someone both numbers and they were supposed to do something highly illegal, I'm sure, with them." She waves a hand. "But then the Bratva attacked us and abducted me—I think someone sold out the Triad."

"Bertinelli," Oliver says immediately, though it only draws confusion from Felicity, her eyes narrowing. "Frank Bertinelli and his daughter Helena have been playing both sides as long as there have been two warring mafia in this town. Helena killed Frank last year because he had her fiancé killed, and she's more ruthless than he was. She pays people off for information and then turns around and sells it off to the other side for a higher price." He shifts in place; he'd rather not discuss his previous negotiations with Helena in the past. While they might have been friendly, she certainly left her fair share of scratches down his back. "She must have figured out who you were and where you'd be, then sold the information to the Bratva."

"That's cold," Felicity decides after a long moment, and Oliver can't help but agree with her. The man he'd been back then, though, had liked her for precisely that reason. But he's grown up a lot in the past three years, and more than anything, he want's to be able to feel again. "I mean, I'm all for the Triad and the Bratva destroying each other, but not while I'm a pawn in their game." With more humor in her voice than present in her expression, she notes, "After all, chess matches never end well for the pawns. Their job is to be sacrificed to win a war. And I'm _not_ going to be anyone's sacrifice."

Unable to stop himself, Oliver places a hand on her shoulder before pressing his lips against her cheek. "I won't let them," he breathes into her skin, pleased when it grows hot under his touch. By trying to declare his intent on this woman, he's probably courting death and danger at once, but at the moment, he doesn't care. The ex-cop has seen himself as beyond redemption for a long time, but she reminds him that he's worthy of being saved. He just has to fight for it.

And maybe, just maybe, saving the girl caught between three worlds can be his salvation.

Though she reacts to his contact, she also tenses at the same time, and Oliver recognizes that she might need to be alone with her thoughts. He pulls away then, and after a long moment informs her, "I think I'm going to get another shower, now that we have soap and hot water. The former Bratva captain doesn't wait for an answer, instead walking into the bathroom and pulling the door to, but not entirely closed.

The hot water feels like heaven after so many years of trying to rinse off in a bathroom sink, and he probably takes longer under the rinse than he probably should. Felicity comes in once, her words flying out at incredible speed as she tells him she needs to do something with her hair that he doesn't quite understand, leaving just as frazzled as she entered. It's quite a while after that when he finally turns off the water and steps out of the tub.

The towel is just barely secured around his waist when Felicity barges in again, and she colors immediately as she realizes his state of undress. This time her hair is covered in a chalky shade of paste between platinum and honey. "I wasn't trying to see you naked, I swear!" she assures him, her words tumbling out in a rush as she squeezes her eyes shut. It takes everything he has to bite down on the laugh that threatens to leave him. "Not that I would mind, but—" She cringes, her complexion turning crimson. "I, um, can't find something from my bag and I came to see if I left it in here." His eyes go over to the counter, finding it in much better shape than it was before. Apparently she tried to clean it up when she was here the last time. "But I can go back in after you finish. Never mind!" She scurries out with that, shutting the door tightly behind her, and it's only then that he lets out the laugh he'd been fighting back.

Shaking his head with the smile still lingering on his face, Oliver steps toward his clothes on the counter, pulling them back on after drying off. As he pulls his pants on, his foot presses against something that isn't tile. Frowning, he looks down at it, only to find a pink, circular compact. He isn't so unfamiliar with the fairer sex that he doesn't know what it is; no doubt it's what she was so anxious to find.

When he finishes getting dressed, he picks up the item in question, carrying out of the bathroom. From there, he offers it to the Triad's precious recordkeeper. "I think I found what you dropped," is all he says, sliding it onto the desk next to where she manipulates the laptop she bought with the ease of an expert. It's as though she's getting reacquainted with an old friend, her actions across the keyboard familiar and easy, unlike Oliver's own relationship with technology. Next to it are the two burner phones she purchased, out of their packaging and lying silent on the desk.

Color slowly creeps across her face, and she pockets it immediately. "It's a funny thing, isn't it?" she says to him, rushing through her words. "I mean, I hate Chien Na Wei for a lot of reasons, but this will never be one of them. An enforcer's kid was flirting with me one day—badly, I might add—and the next, she had a prescription for birth control for me. Then she said that what I do with my body is my business, but that I should at least take care of myself." She waves a hand. "I mean, it was beyond mortifying at the time, but it was the closest thing I've ever had to a parental interaction since I was seven." Her fingers falter on the keyboard, her mouth turning down into a frown. "I barely remember my mom."

"That's how I feel about my dad," Oliver answers slowly, leaning against a bare space on the desk. "He traveled a lot with work, and he died when I was ten—the boat he was on was caught in a storm and it went down." He crosses his arms, heaving a sigh. "My mom was pregnant with my sister at the time, but she stayed so… _strong_." Unable to stop himself, he adds, "Thea gets that from her."

"That must be where you get it, too," Felicity doesn't hesitate to add. When he scoffs at her assessment, she stops typing code to place a hand over the one he has across the desk. "If you weren't strong, you couldn't have survived all the terrible things you've live through, Oliver." Her fingers curl around his hand as she meets his eyes. "One thing I _do_ remember about my mom is that she had a favorite saying: living is not for the weak."

It feels like admitting a crime to her now, but he can't hear her say these words and think so highly of him—not when Oliver hasn't done anything to deserve it. "I thought about it," he says to her, his voice barely even a whisper. It may not be very clear, but he knows she'll understand. "There were times when I wanted to—like this morning, before we met again. And I almost did."

"But you're still here," she reminds him, her tone just as gentle as his own. "That's all that matters." She shrugs. "I mean, _everyone_ _says_ they want to die at some point or another, but I think we all fight to live at the end." Her eyes turn glossy, as though she's reliving some horror she saw within the walls of the Triad. "It's human nature, I think—we all fight to feel in control of our own lives." Without warning, she pushes the chair back, rising to her feet and rising on her toes to place her lips to his cheek. "But, for the record, I'm glad you're here. Alive."

She walks toward the bathroom just as abruptly, and Oliver can do little else but stare behind her with wonder, marveling at how she can know him so well it's eerie while being precisely what he needs at the same time. Before he can manage control of his mouth again, he watches her work through yet another step in the process of dyeing her hair. "Since you're the one with the fancy new wardrobe and without the Triad and Bratva looking for you, could you maybe find us some food tonight?" she asks through the open door. "I'd eat just about anything as long as it's kosher, and I wasn't sure inviting room service up here would be a good idea."

Oliver hesitates, loath to leave her yet knowing she'd be a target on the streets of Starling City. "Will you be okay here?" he asks her, his tone cautious. As much as he doesn't want her harmed, he also doesn't want to upset her.

The scoff that answers makes him think he wasn't quite successful with the latter goal. "I'll be fine," Felicity answers in a dry voice, as if the entire city _isn't_ intent on finding her. She pokes her head out of the bathroom for a moment, pointing toward the phones. "I programmed those while you were in the shower. Take one—just in case." Then the former recordkeeper moves back into the bathroom as he does just that. "The other number is programmed into it, so if anything happens, I'll call you."

Picking up one of the key cards from the desk, Oliver slips out, calling out to let her know before he does. While he'd much rather have her with him, he's also glad for the time alone with his thoughts after so much has happened. Outside, the sky is starting to darken, bright orange peeking through at the horizon and splashing pinks and purples across the sky. Oliver pulls his suit coat further around him as a breeze blows by, bringing the bite of autumn in Starling City with it.

The time around the hotel and its nearby restaurants also allows him the ability to note the security and any threats around the area. No one he sees looks overly suspicious; just the typical Starling Heights crowd. Another reason he wanted to stay here—for reasons he didn't want to scare her with—was because of the typical business dress of the people milling about; Bratva enforcers, with their heavy combat boots and tattoos, would stand out against this backdrop, giving him more time to spot any threats. But, for once, they seem to be free of any mafia members—if only for a little while.

Though he's unused to the concept of having plenty of money, Oliver feels like the situation calls for celebration: they survived this day. Tomorrow will be another day, fraught with new battles, but for the moment, they're alive and safe. Because of that, he ducks into a fine Italian restaurant several blocks from the hotel, smiling at the hostess and asking her for meals to go in Italian. The wait is comfortable, though he can't stop himself from checking the phone every so often to see if Felicity has tried to call.

The walk back to the hotel room is just as uneventful as the last, and when he slides the key card through the reader, the sight that greets him is a now very blonde Felicity Smoak. Though he probably shouldn't, he stares a little as his eyebrows rise at her appearance. "That's a good look for you," he decides slowly, "and it's different enough that no one will think to look twice at you." His eyes trail down her legs, exposed by the sleep shorts she must have purchased earlier. It's rude, but he can't help staring, even as his mouth goes dry. "Well, not because they think you're Mei Lin," he allows, causing her to blush as she interprets his point.

Instead of answering, she starts poking into the to-go bag he brought, not caring that it's still in his hands. "That smells heavenly," Felicity states with a smile that gives him the overwhelming urge to kiss her. It does nothing for his already tenuous control to realize she'd probably let him. Fortunately, her attention is mostly on the food, so she doesn't notice his staring. "The last time I had Italian was when Chien Na Wei was working out of the restaurant district of Coast City about ten years ago." She unwraps a fork and tries a bite from _his_ plate before making a very pleased sound that makes parts of him equally as pleased. "It wasn't this good, though."

Unable to bring himself to say anything, Felicity looks up in response to his silence, her eyes raking over him once before seeing something there that she must like, judging by the way her eyes darken. Then she seems to come to her senses, turning back to the food with new interest as she begins talking rapid-fire. "I read an article once that said that relationships formed during high-intensity situations almost never last." Though it's said conversationally, he can hear the warning underneath it. "It's because they're formed on adrenaline and stress and all those things that make people do stupid, crazy things. They don't get a chance to really know each other before attempting something more, and along the way, they find out they have absolutely _nothing_ in common."

Oliver gives some thought to her words before deciding, "Maybe it's because of the same reason that a lot of relationships don't last." She turns to look at him then, watching him carefully. "A lot of people fall in love with the idea of someone, more so than they do that person. Their expectations are unrealistic, so the relationship is doomed from the beginning." Oliver knows a lot about those; he's survived a few of those relationships himself. "That could happen in a high-intensity relationship, too." In a pointed tone, he adds, "But if you're interested in a relationship with someone, I don't think it's fair to let fear determine what you do. You've already spent so long just surviving, Felicity—we both have. But maybe it's time to remember what it feels like to _live_."

Apparently he's said something right because a smile comes back to her face. "Maybe you're right," she decides with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she's contemplating that. She walks toward him a little, leaning her hip against the desk. "I'm not sure I've ever truly lived before, Oliver. I'm not sure I know how. But I'd like to." Then she laughs. "You make it sound like the world is at my fingertips. And while that's exciting, it's also a little terrifying."

In slow steps, Oliver crosses the remaining distance between them until she's just a few inches away. Instead of trying to make the first move in this dance they've somehow started in the last few moments, he places his hand on the surface of the desk, reaching out for hers. Her fingers close around his hand immediately. "I don't know if the _world_ is at your fingertips," he disagrees with weight, "but what's there is yours to take."

There are so many ways he can imagine her response, yet the one she chooses still manages to surprise him. Tentative, she curves one hand around the back of his neck, before curving it around to stroke his jaw in a display of intimacy that has been missing from his life for a very long time. His eyes fall closed of their own accord, reveling in the feeling of someone's fingers against his skin for the first time since the Bratva tried to take everything from him. Her left hand reaches for the opposite side of his face, her touch gentle and delicate on his skin. All Oliver can think is how he is nowhere near worthy of this moment, not after all the things he's done and the monsters he's been, to have a woman like Felicity near him.

And, just like that, soft lips press against his.

For a moment, he can't move against the feather-light kiss, too stunned to make sense of the reality before him. But it isn't long before he responds, pulling her into his arms. His right hand tangles in her newly blonde hair, the other pulling her further into him. He follows the tone she set, of slow, careful kisses, reveling in the sensation.

He senses the change before it happens, the sudden urgency Felicity pushes into the kiss. Oliver isn't unfamiliar with things escalating, but the sudden fire to it throws him off balance for a moment. He quickly recovers, lifting her to sit on part of the bare surface of the desk as he stands between her knees. He moans into her mouth when she sucks on his lip, the sound earning him a returning cry from the blonde.

Finally they have to break apart for air, but that doesn't stop him from following the curve of her jaw with his mouth, earning another delicious sound as he finds the hollow behind her ear. Encouraged by her response, he journeys lower until he finds her collar bone, running his tongue along one of the sharp points. Hands claw at the buttons of his shirt as he explores her jaw and throat with his mouth, undoing the buttons at an almost agonizing pace. Warm, soft hands run along his torso, but she doesn't differentiate between healthy skin or scar tissue, though he's sure she can feel the difference. It's yet another way for Felicity to tell him that they don't matter to her. In this moment, all they have is each other, and that's more than enough.

When she finally makes a coherent sound, the words are a throaty demand: "Bed. _Now_." It's yet another way she manages to take him by surprise, so much so that he can't resist pulling back to look at her with raised eyebrows. Her skin is already colored with a flush of heat, so Oliver isn't sure if she's blushing at his silent question or not.

Because the _last_ thing he wants to do is torment her, Oliver answers first with a chaste kiss to her lips that contrasts oddly with their current situation. "Anything you want," he assures her before swooping in for another kiss, this time the opposite of chaste. He takes the time to lock her legs around his waist before lifting her with a hand under her thighs, then takes slow steps toward the bed. When his shins touch the mattress, he drapes her across it, lowering himself so that he hovers slightly above her. Felicity's long legs curve on either side of them, her toes sinking into the mattress as she stares at him with so many emotions that he doesn't even know how to describe them, her hair fanning out around her face.

Her expression suddenly turns shy, a reaction he would have thought possible from the vibrant woman before. "In the interest in fair warning," she blurts, her voice rising an octave in something he might call panic under different circumstances, "I should probably warn you that I…" She trails off, swallowing once, and Oliver cups her face in his hand. "I, um, have never done… _this_ before."

It takes a moment for the implications of her statement to set in, and he knows the surprise must be recognizable on his features. For a moment, all he can answer is a very blank, " _What?_ "

Her skin goes hot under his scrutiny, and she looks away from him as she answers, "Grew up surrounded by Triad, remember?" Felicity takes a hand off his shoulder to wave it around. "I was the crazy American girl who was raised by the Triad— _no one_ got close to me. Made it hard to have romantic relationships."

"Oh," Oliver answers dumbly. He has no idea how to interpret this fact about the blonde underneath him, or what he needs to do with it. Clearly by the pointed stare, she means to tell him _something_ —he just has no idea _what_ that something is. In need of a clarification as to what she means to tell him with that statement, he asks in a low, rough voice, "Do you want to stop?" Though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed, he would be more than willing to walk away, if that's what she wants him to do.

Again she manages to surprise him with her response. "Oliver Queen," she declares darkly, in that low, throaty tone that makes him _very_ aware of certain parts of his body, "if you aren't inside me by the end of this night, you are going to regret the day you were ever born." He laughs into her shoulder in response, ignoring the way she tugs at his shirt to try and remove it. "I didn't tell you because I wanted to stop. I told you so you'd know what to _expect_."

With that, her mouth goes to his jaw, running a line across it as though she's done it a thousand times. Though he expected nothing less, Oliver is pleased to know that Felicity is a fast learner. And apparently not a shy one, either, judging by where her hand has dived between them. When he can finally form a coherent sentence again, he growls out, "Well, _I_ expect you to lose a few items of clothing first."

She already has the dry answer by the time he finishes speaking: "I'm sure that can be arranged."


	5. Past and Present

**Chapter: 5 - Past and Present  
Word Count: 4354**

 **Notes:** I am truly sorry for how late this is. But I'm even more sorry because it brings to light some issues.

Here's the thing: these chapters are _draining_. It's a fun story to write and I intend to finish it, don't get me wrong, but I have to work constantly. The faster pace of the story makes me write like a demon is chasing me, which results in a lot of extra editing time to compensate for lousy writing. Meaning I barely finish one chapter when it's time to start another, and I have no time to rest up between them. It's a demanding story and I'm not doing it justice at this point.

I thought I could, but I can't keep going at this pace. I wish I could give you a new chapter every week instead of two very late chapters back-to-back before doing this, but I simply need a break from this story for the time being. So if you give me the rest of February, I empromise/em you a new chapter on March 3. But in the meantime, I'm going to rest and explore some other stuff on Thursdays, writing chapters of this when the muse is inspired. Right now, it's a little exhausted and I need to be able to fill the well again by moving on to something else for a while.

So **the next chapter of this story goes up March 3**. I'm sorry about the long wait, but I greatly appreciate your understanding and support through this. Give me time to get this story whipped into shape, and I guarantee I'll make it worth the wait.

Anyway, here's what should have been yesterday's post. Love to hear from you guys, but I completely understand if you're upset/mad/frustrated. Thank you for reading. :)

* * *

If kissing Oliver Queen was a surreal experience, then waking up next to him belongs in an entirely different universe. As Felicity slowly opens her eyes, the previous night's events come flooding back to her in stunning technicolor, and she smiles in spite of herself. It might have been brash or risky to let someone she barely knows into her life and into her bed, but yesterday was marked with her first tastes of freedom.

Though she's sore from last night's events when she tries to move, Felicity finds it a welcome sort of ache, a reminder of what, exactly, she chose to give Oliver. It seemed fitting somehow; he's the first man in her life who isn't terrified of her status as the Triad's precious Ledger or involved in the life itself. While the blonde had her fair share of interested parties in the past, the _last_ thing she wanted was to find herself in love with and effectively tied to a man in the Triad, forcing her into the very life she was trying so hard to escape.

Her movements cause Oliver to stir a little, his arm settling just above her hip as his breath fans across her neck in small puffs. Even in sleep he's wrapped himself around her in an almost protective gesture, something Felicity finds comforting against her better judgment. But she doesn't need to feel comforted; she needs to feel _free_ , to escape.

And now, they're just breaths away from freedom.

The thought stirs her into alertness, making her shift out from under his arm, making slow movements toward the bathroom and a hot shower. But just as she leaves his presence, his hand latches a hand around her arm, nearly circling her wrist. "Where are you going?" Oliver rasps out, his voice coated so thick with sleep that it sounds like he gargled with rocks. It makes her think of the throaty voice he used last night, for entirely different reasons.

Though she isn't sure what kind of relationship to expect—or any at all, for that matter—the blonde turns back to him, pressing her lips to his for a chaste kiss as he releases her. "Bathroom," she assures him. "I'm not going anywhere until we decide what we're doing next. You can go back to sleep."

He doesn't answer her immediately, and she takes advantage of the quiet to take a hot shower and get dressed in one of the dresses she bought yesterday. The thought startles her—had it only been _yesterday_ that she was under the Triad's control? It feels like lifetimes since then, after everything they've done and lived through. Yesterday, she only knew Oliver as a person who she once tried to help, but now she knows him uncomfortably well. It's a disturbing thought in some ways, but, then again, Felicity's life has never made sense.

Though the blonde expects her friend to still be asleep, Oliver is alert, studying a map of the city she didn't even know they had, dressed in the suit again. His eyes flick upward as she enters, a small curve coming to his lips before he focuses on the map again. Her curiosity piquing, she stands on her toes to look over his shoulder at the map. "What are you doing?" Felicity can't help but ask.

Her answer comes in the form of a sigh. "Trying to figure out what to do next," he admits in a slow, cautious tone. "We could always run, but we'd be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives." Though she'd never say it aloud, the blonde rather likes the way he refers to them as a _we_. Apparently he isn't going to give her up any time soon. "I think it might be a better idea to change the status quo somehow—give them a reason why coming after you would be more trouble than it's worth." He turns to look over his shoulder at her, taking her hand and pulling her into his arms. "I wasn't going to ask this, but it might be our only bargaining chip: What was the number they made you memorize?"

It's a mystery that would probably have kept her up last night if she didn't have other things—namely Oliver—to occupy her time. "I told you," she mutters as she rests her head on his shoulder. "It's a long, boring number." Then she stares at him as the implications of his words kick in. "Wait. You want to _go after_ the guys trying to take us down?" It's surprising enough to make her blurt, "You have to be crazy or stupid. We don't have an army. They _do_."

If he takes offense at her words, Oliver doesn't show it. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth as he responds by asking her in a thoughtful tone, "You said it's one number. How do you know it's _just_ one number and not several separate numbers?"

Pulling away to look at him, Felicity can't help but answer, "Well, you might be crazy, but you're definitely not stupid." He takes it as the compliment it's meant to be, judging by the smile that turns the corners of his mouth upward. "It could be," she allows, a pause between each word as she contemplates the implications of that thought. "There are several numbers in the sequence that have a three or a seven in front of them." Mentally, she goes through the number again. "Most of them are nonsense, but five of them have a seven before them, and eight have a three before them. There are too many occurrences for it to be random."

Her self-appointed protector lapses into silence for a long moment. "If it's too often to be numbers," he decides, "then they have to be words. Threes and sevens mean the _same_ words, so it's something simple—left and right, I bet." The smile on his face is triumphant and calculating. "It's a combination to a safe. I've seen them do it before, but not with information stuck in someone's head." He makes a motion to the notepad on the desk. "Could you write them down for me?"

It's a display of trust she isn't quite ready for; Felicity has long since grown accustomed to people trying to get information from her. This could be just another new tactic to crack her like the same safe he mentioned earlier, but she decides after a moment that Oliver is worth a leap of faith. She picks up the pen, scribbling them down in clear, concise print. For his part, her friend doesn't even look at them, tucking the piece of paper into his jacket pocket.

Though Felicity has never seen the look that follows on his face before, she decides immediately that she doesn't like it. "That's our bargaining chip, Felicity," he tells her. "They have to be moving something—receiving money or goods from someone they don't think they can trust to receive payment. That's why they were using you as an intermediary." Then he tilts his head to look at her. "We could play this out, see where this leads us, but you would probably have to go back to the Triad." She starts to protest, but he holds up a hand. "I'd be stirring things up with the Bratva to see what they know. It wouldn't be safe for you to be there."

Already the blonde is shaking her head, not waiting for him to finish. "I can't go back there, Oliver," she tells him, her tone frantic. "I've been too much trouble now, and they can't guarantee that I didn't talk to someone, even if I tell them I didn't. That would be bad business. They'll use me to carry their message and then kill me—that's good business."

He frowns at that, displeased with the idea of that. "We need more information. I was planning on going straight to the source…" Oliver trails off, going quiet for a moment before he offers while looking like he accidentally sucked on a lemon, "I could make a call to Helena. She's the one who sold information to the Bratva, I bet." His tone almost turns admiring, and maybe it shouldn't bother her, but Felicity does _not_ like the sound of that. "There's nothing that goes on in this city without her knowing about it."

With a knowing look, the blonde decides to just say what she's thinking: "When you discussed Helena Bertinelli before, it was just informational, but now it sounds like you two know each other." The way he glances away from her only serves to confirm her suspicions. "No judgment, but I thought you said she had a fiancé? The one she killed her father over when he killed said fiancé? Grieving almost-widow doesn't strike me as the type for a little romance."

Even against the grim set of the rest of his face, the corner of his mouth turns up at her words. "There was nothing romantic about my relationship Helena Bertinelli," Oliver answers in a flat tone. Felicity can read between the lines; their relationship had been sex and nothing but. Still, he feels the need to clarify, "Before I worked for the Bratva, I paid Helena for a lot of information I needed for my previous job. I just usually didn't pay her with money." Her horror must show on her face because Oliver shrugs, turning self-conscious. "I was paid to do a job. They didn't care how I got my information as long as I finished it."

Though she isn't sure what that job was, something tells her this isn't something to ask about. "If we went to see Helena," the blonde decides, "how would that work?" She waves a hand. "I mean, I _know_ how it would work, but would I be Mei Lin or Felicity Smoak or some other person?"

"If she gave the Bratva the information," Oliver answers, "she'll know who you are and a little hair dye won't matter." Rising to her feet, she starts to pack the laptop back in her bag, gathering the small amount of clothes and shoving them into Oliver's backpack. When she turns to look at him, he's rolling up the map and gathering some of her… displaced clothing from last night. "We probably shouldn't come back here, either—we need to move on to the next place."

It takes them all of ten minutes to gather their things and check out, most of that spent in the elevator. The car requires a little more work; Oliver manages to convince a man to sell his twenty-year-old Ford for a few hundred dollars of her cash. It leaves her with a few thousand dollars still, but, according to Oliver, Helena is going to cost them more than that.

As he takes a turn into what looks like a restaurant row, Felicity finally decides to warn him, "I'm not going to let you pay for information the old way with Helena." His eyes widen a little and he glances at her, his mouth turning into a smile after a moment. "Not because I feel like I hold any claim over you," she rushes to add, "but because it's the principle of the thing. I refuse to let you do something like that to help me—I'd rather make a run for it than to do that."

"I wasn't planning on paying for information," is all he answers, cryptic as ever. One of his hands leaves the wheel, reaching over to take hers and give it a light squeeze. "And you have more claim over me than anyone." He lets out a breath, hesitant. "You act like I saved you, but _you_ were the one to save _me_. I was just paying you back." He starts to pull his hand back, but he takes hers with it, kissing the back of her hand before releasing it. "And now we can save each other."

"That sounds nice," the blonde admits as he pulls into a parking space in front of a restaurant advertising itself as Russo's. She stares at the elegant façade for a moment, trying to understand what they're doing here. The restaurant isn't open yet because of the early hour, and the parking lot is almost completely devoid of cars. "Oliver, what are we doing at an empty restaurant?"

The smile he throws her is devilish. "Russo's is a front. Russo hasn't owned the place since the late nineties, when he could no longer pay the Bertinellis protection money. He was forced to sign over the place to Frank, and Helena inherited everything he owned. This is where Helena operates." Before she can protest, Oliver is stepping out of the car, leaving Felicity to follow.

After following him into the dimly lit restaurant, they're immediately met by a man with an Italian accent who assures them that they aren't open for business. Oliver, however, is undeterred. "Tell Helena that Oliver Queen is here to see her," is his only statement. It must mean something because the man's eyes widen before he scurries away, disappearing to the back of the restaurant.

It's only a few heartbeats before he comes back, bobbing his head several times before ushering them toward the back of the restaurant. The room is blocked from view by a red velvet curtain that he sweeps aside, revealing a small office. A brunette woman sits behind the antique mahogany desk, staring at a sleek computer screen that is definitely _not_ antique. While Helena Bertinelli may be a horrible human being, Felicity can't help but nod in approval at her choice of electronics.

Because there is no doubt the woman in front of them is the head of the Bertinelli family. Before, the blonde was having a hard time picturing what a woman so ruthless she killed her own father looked like, and now she manages to be surprised by the brunette with a scowl and a full pout. Funny; she doesn't _look_ evil in any particular way.

The moment her eyes land on Oliver, the brunette's mouth twists into a smile that manages to be threatening and seductive all at once, and Felicity can't help but wonder if she stood in the mirror practicing that look. (The blonde herself could _not_ manage that without practice.) "Oliver," Helena drawls, drawing out the word. "What a pleasant surprise. I didn't know you were back in Starling City."

"Of course you did," Oliver answers on the coattails of her words. "I wouldn't be surprised if Slade paid you in kind for what information he needed." Felicity has no idea who Slade is, but she doesn't think this is the time to ask. But, judging by the way her friend spits the name, they can't be too friendly. "Today I have information for _you_." He motions to Felicity, touching her shoulder with a feather-light brush. "This is Mei Lin. I assume you know the name—you sold it to the Bratva."

The smirk he receives in return is all the confirmation they need. "Oliver, you _know_ I don't discuss my clients' business," she assures him in a voice so sweet it makes the blonde's stomach churn. Then Helena offers a soft huff of a breath. "Not unless you're paying for it, of course, and it doesn't sound like that's what you need to know." She steeples her fingers, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. "But yes, I'm familiar with the name of the Triad's precious Ledger. But she doesn't speak English—she's of no use to you."

Oliver counters in a firm tone, "She doesn't speak English, but I speak Mandarin." Helena's mouth falls open a little, and Felicity has to fight to keep a smile off her own face. After all, she's not supposed to be able to understand this conversation. "She hasn't told me anything yet, but when I found her, they were screaming something about a code to a safe. You can tell the highest bidder my name and that I have the girl— _if_ you tell me the details of the safe and why everyone in this damn city is after it."

Arching an eyebrow, Helena counters, "And what makes you think I know the details?"

With a snort of amusement, Oliver answers in a dry tone, "People in this city don't take a _taxi_ without you knowing the starting point, destination, and the cost of the fare." Though she doesn't acknowledge that with words, Felicity thinks her smile is answer enough; the woman looks like a cat after cornering a very fat canary. "Nobody moves money or information in this town without your permission. I need to know what the hell she has, Helena."

The woman pretends to deliberate for a long moment, but it's a stall tactic; Felicity already knows she's going to tell him just exactly what he wants to know. Maybe their relationship is strictly business, but the blonde decides that Helena must have some modicum of affection for Oliver, if only as her plaything. "You always were good, Oliver," she starts, and Felicity is pretty sure there's a double entendre in the information peddler's words. "Fine. I'll tell you—for old time's sake."

She circles the desk, leaning against it as she stands too close to Oliver for the blonde's comfort. "The girl has a combination to a safe—just like you thought. In the safe is thirty million dollars." Felicity has to look away to hide her surprise; that's honestly the last thing she expected. "She was supposed to pick up another number when you intercepted her." The brunette examines her fingernails. "In it is something _worth_ thirty million dollars. The second safe? Even I don't know where it is or what's in it. But the first one…" She trails off into a smile that makes Felicity's skin crawl. "It's in an illegal casino in Chinatown. Eleventh and Beijing Boulevard." Felicity starts at the address; that's the casino that the Triad controls—the one that Chien Na Wei loves so much. "Wall safe on the underground level."

Oliver doesn't answer, already turning to walk away. He takes Felicity's hand as he does so, linking his fingers through hers. They make it about two steps when Helena calls out to them, "Wait, Oliver." He half turns toward the sound of her voice, but makes no other attempt to pay attention to her. "I _know_ you—you don't steal and you don't get attached to anyone—not even pretty little things like her." Felicity is fairly certain that two deaf people outside turned at the sound of the bitterness in her voice because it's so loud and clear. "What _is_ she to you?"

Oliver keeps walking, offering only one word in response: "Life."

There is very little Slade hates more than being called to the Mayor's mansion in the middle of the night, like a child summoned to the principal's office. Though he might be a civil servant, he's a king in this town, and their pansy-ass of a mayor has _no right_ sending for him as one might a damn dog. But because he _is_ a civil servant, he'll have to fetch for the son of a bitch—at least until he retires in a few months.

Sebastian Blood is all charm and expensive suits as always, leaving Slade waiting in the lobby for almost two hours when they both know he has no previous engagements. This is both a punishment and a reminder, the captain knows; Blood is in charge, whether he likes it or not, so he might as well accept it because it will make his life easier.

Still, when the lovely brunette who hangs on the mayor's arm appears in the doorway, Slade rises to his feet, watching the mayor throw her a charming smile as he kisses her cheek. "Be careful driving home, Laurel," he tells her with a smile. "I'll meet you at the office for lunch tomorrow, okay?"

She nods before saying something Slade doesn't care to listen to, and Blood waits until she's out of sight before rounding on one of his favorite captains with a sneer. "Why the hell didn't you _tell_ me that Oliver Queen is running around my city again?" he asks while ushering him into the office. "I need to know what's going on, Wilson, and how Queen is involved with it?"

The weasel of a man seems frantic to Slade, a fact he files away for later. Anyone else might give him exactly what he wants to hear, but the police captain isn't anyone's lapdog, least of all Sebastian Blood's. "I might as you the same question," he growls. "He's playing a game, and I want to know what it is."

"I think you forget who answers to whom," Blood answers, a threat and a promise all at once. It's a reminder that despite his rank in the city, Slade is always going to be a piece in someone else's game, a feeling he's far too tired of. "You're nothing but a pawn, Wilson—and you're playing on a board so big you can't even see the edges."

"I knew about Oliver Queen," Slade retorts, "which is more than you could say five minutes ago."

To his surprise, the mayor simply laughs at him, as though he's a mere child saying something so innocent it's a joke. "What you know about Oliver Queen," Blood answers, "is just a footnote at the bottom of a page in an entire goddamn library." He shuts the door to his study, going over to pour them both a glass of top-shelf scotch before continuing.

He takes his time, settling into his favorite chair and waiting for Wilson to follow in a large, high-backed chair. "Do you remember what everything was like seven years ago after the Undertaking happened and Malcolm Merlyn turned the Glades into a parking lot? _I_ was the one who formed your task force to deal with the crime while reconstruction was happening." With a pointed look, he adds, "And I was the one who put _you_ in charge of it. My decision made your career, Captain."

He takes a sip from his glass before continuing, "But if you think Oliver was just one of your cops, you're more stupid than I thought you were." The urge rises up in Slade to snap the asshole's neck, but that won't do him any good right now. Another sniveling mayor would just take up the mantle, and he'd have to train another one. Much more trouble than it's worth. "When I put together your team, I knew it needed an edge to get things done—something no ordinary detectives could give me. The crime rate skyrocketed over night, and you weren't equipped to deal with the kind of criminals you were facing. I called friends in places so deep that they didn't officially exist. Most of them said no, but ARGUS was sympathetic, and a week later, Waller sent me Oliver Queen."

Slade can't help but snort at the possibility of the kid being anything like a contract killer, but if there's a punch line, Blood isn't laughing. "Did you ever stop to think what happened to those thugs that vanished over the four years Queen was on your team? All the drug kingpins, the crime bosses? The rapists, the serial killers?" He laughs. "Did you really think those were the result of vigilantism and turf wars?" He swirls his drink around in his hand. "Oliver Queen is a ghost." Blood takes another drink, this time much longer than the last. "A very _deadly_ ghost."

He drains the whole glass, and there's little Slade can do other than stare at his employer. "And it worked like a charm for four whole years, too. But then you and the rest of your crew had to go and get greedy, stealing from the same cons you arrested, buying information from Bertinelli, and taking bribes from the local mobs." Blood rises to his feet, going to fill his glass again. "Oliver may be a killer, but he's an honest one, and you offended him. He threatened to take the whole thing down. It took one hell of a magic trick to make him disappear, and if it hadn't been for Waller, he would have made sure you ended up in Iron Heights right next to the scum you arrest. When he gets on a roll, there's only one person in this city who can take him down one-on-one."

Before he can continue further, there's a knock at the door. A very pretty brunette in a red dress pokes her head in, and it takes Slade a moment to place her as Blood's personal assistant. "Mr. Blood," she calls in a light voice, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there was a major turf war between the Triad and the Bratva downtown, and you'll need to make a statement."

"Thank you, Isabel," Blood answers in dismissal, and she nods before disappearing again. He waves a hand. "We don't have much time, Wilson, but I need to know everything you know about Oliver Queen's actions and what the hell he's doing out there."

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts after that particular bombshell, Slade answers haltingly, "The Chinese… they're looking for an American girl in Goth getup who only speaks Chinese, and the Russians are bidding for a chance at her, too. The last time she was spotted, she was with Oliver Queen." That shouldn't visibly affect Blood, but he runs a hand through his hair at the news, turning to pace the floor. At last, Slade might have found a crack in that armor. Now the trick is using it.

"Close every exit out of the city," the mayor declares. "You catch them, you get commissioner. If you don't, you get a shovel to dig your own grave." Blood points a finger at his captain. "That girl does _not_ leave this city."


End file.
